Chapter Text
i.
The reflection of Pacifica’s huge white moon dances against the waves, and it makes Brad think of his hometown. Not that there is any reason for him to think of Modesto when he looks out at the stretching expanse of ocean. He’d grown up inland, surrounded by grapes, and he’d rarely gone to the beach as a kid. No one in his family is particularly beachy, although he’d been the only one to get a rash from the sand. He’s stretched out on a lounge chair, cradling a shockingly sugary and yet still dangerously potent drink—his third of the night—staring up at the stars and digging the toe of his boot into the sand.
So, maybe it’s not the moon’s reflection in the ocean that makes him think of Modesto, but he’s thinking about it, nonetheless. He’d all but guaranteed his family that he’d be a lieutenant by now—junior grade, but that’s not the point. But, he still has the one pip on his collar, and he wouldn’t be up for a promotion in another six months, at least. Sure, no one else from his cohort had been promoted, either, but it would have been cool to be the only one. It would have really set him apart. And now, Brad has to redo all of his calculations, completely rethink his life’s plan, to make sure he can get himself back on track.
He thinks of his heroes. Christopher Pike, Kathryn Janeway, Tryla Scott, all people who’d become captain before most other Starfleet officers had even become commanders. People who had met their professional goals with decades left of their careers to spare. Brad may still be young, but he’s not that young, and the clock is ticking, and he’s sick of looking up to people and more than ready to be looked up to.
Brad’s not Mariner, he doesn’t know everything there is to know about Starfleet and the various races of the galaxy. He doesn’t have the field experience that she’s clearly got. Honestly, it’s like she was raised on a starship. He’s not Rutherford, either, able to better perform with that Vulcan implant in his head. When it’s working properly, at least. And, he’s certainly not Tendi, brand new to Starfleet but so naturally intelligent that Brad has to wonder if the only reason she’s in the California-class right now is because of her race. He’s seen Tendi wrap her head around concepts in seconds that officers with decades of experience struggle with.
Of course, Brad knows that Tendi works hard. Still, nothing has ever come easy to him like that. Brad has never been able to coast, not when he was a kid, not when he was at the academy, and certainly not now. In fact, since becoming an ensign, Brad has realized that all of those hours spent reading and learning in the classroom could amount to nothing in the field. That’s where Mariner’s expertise comes into play, and she’s made it very clear that Brad’s nowhere near her level, even with over a year of experience on the Cerritos. On top of that, he’s not strong, and he can’t kick his way out of any little problem like she can.
Plus, he’d really thought he’d had a good thing going with his girlfriend Barbara, only to learn that her attraction to him was not because of his natural charm and vast knowledge of Starfleet captains, but because he’d been infected by some kind of parasite. Not the first time that’d happened to him, though it was the first parasite to have a positive impact on his dating life.
He can’t blame her for dumping him—Starfleet officers are notoriously fickle when it comes to dating, and most would rather dedicate their lives to their careers than to each other. Still, it stings a bit every time he catches Mariner messaging with her. They’re making plans to meet up. So, Brad can’t help but miss the parasite, a little.
He sits on his beach chair, sulking, fantasizing about getting promoted and lamenting the fact that, even with the parasite, he hadn’t even gotten laid.
Other ensigns got promoted today, and everyone is at a bar farther down the beach, celebrating. Brad should be celebrating with them, and he will, but he needs to get some sulking in before he puts on a happy face for a bunch of people who are leaving him behind. He knows when he gets there, Tendi and Rutherford will probably already be tucked away in some booth, gushing about who knows what, and Mariner will probably already be standing on the bar, chugging booze with her jacket unbuttoned. She’ll get wasted and convince everyone to go skinny dipping later. Brad takes an anticipatory sip of his drink.
Mariner. Brad can’t figure her out. She clearly has a ton of experience, and she’s taking her role as his self-appointed mentor somewhat seriously, but he worries that his affiliation with her is hurting his chances at advancing. She’s been promoted and demoted in the time he’s been here. If he’s going to captain a galaxy-class ship by the time he’s thirty, can he really be hanging around with the most insubordinate ensign on the Cerritos?
A splash in the water catches his attention. He thinks it might be a Selkie, but the being that rises from the water isn’t slim enough, and too tall. Brad squints as the figure approaches, shaking their head and walking toward him and oh, no, it’s Jack Ransom.
Shit. Right in the middle of Brad’s sulking.
Commander Ransom spots him and starts to approach, and Brad curses himself for not changing out of his uniform. He’s obviously Starfleet, obviously from the Cerritos, the only starship docked nearby, and Jack Ransom is obviously going to come up to him and talk to him.
Brad stands and salutes. Ransom laughs.
“At ease… Ensign,” he says, after getting close enough to get a look at Brad’s collar.
The word ensign stings. Brad sits back down.
“Out for a swim, Commander?” he asks.
“Yeah, needed to clear my head,” says Ransom. He takes a seat at the foot of Brad’s chair. Brad pulls his knees up to make room. “Hey, shouldn’t you be out celebrating with your friends?”
Brad shrugs and looks away. He knows he can’t hide his disappointment, and he doesn’t want Ransom seeing him looking like a bad sport, even if that is what he is.
“Needed to clear my head,” he says, and Ransom nods.
Brad takes another sip of his drink. He hadn’t eaten anything today, too nervous about the promotion and then too disappointed and frustrated with himself about the lack of promotion. He hadn’t realized this until Ransom had shown up, but he’s a lot drunker than he’d meant to get.
He needs to go find Mariner, who will undoubtedly be at least as drunk as he is.
Ransom is eying him, and Brad feels his cheeks heat. They hardly know each other, and Brad would be shocked if Ransom even knows his name. Brad’s been on this ship for over a year, but he’s only interacted with the commander a handful of times. He knows that Ransom loves leading away missions, that he jumps at the opportunity for adventure, for danger, and that he annoys the hell out of Mariner, though she’s never bothered to explain why. Rumors abound that Ransom has a Riker-like charm, too, and that he’s got a knack for squeezing in trysts with various aliens while on away missions and after successful second contacts. It’s not too surprising; Ransom also looks like he was made to be on a Starfleet recruitment poster. He’s handsome and strong in a way Brad will never be, no matter how much he works out, and he definitely knows it. Brad’s sure that he’s competent, but he’s barely interacted with the guy beyond mutual nods when they pass each other in the hallway.
So, this is the first time they’re really talking. And Brad’s feeling drunk and melancholy and not at all like sucking up to his superior officer like he should be.
“How long’ve you been on the ship, Ensign?” asks Ransom, still looking at Brad, too intently for Brad’s comfort.
Too long to still be an ensign. “A year and three months, sir,” he answers.
“You know, ensigns typically serve on starships for at least two years, if not three, before they get promoted,” Ransom tells him.
Brad flushes again. “I know,” he says. “Sir.”
“You looked pretty disappointed today,” says Ransom.
Brad looks away. “I’m happy for my colleagues,” he mutters, and it sounds as bitter as he feels.
He’s making a terrible impression.
To his surprise, Ransom laughs. “Sounds like you really mean it,” he says, still chuckling. He studies Brad again. “You’re the guy always hanging around Mariner, aren’t you? Didn't she slice your leg open with a bat’leth a couple of months ago?”
Brad shrugs. “Yeah,” he admits. “She didn't mean to.”
He doesn't know why he’s defending her, but, for some reason, he doesn't want Ransom thinking Mariner’s all bad. Maybe because it’ll make Brad look bad by association, or maybe because, at the end of the day… she is, unfortunately, his best friend.
“She knows a lot,” Brad adds.
Ransom regards him again. “She does,” he agrees. “She’s also a troublemaker. For someone who wants to get promoted out of the lower decks as soon as possible, you’re choosing interesting friends.”
Brad sighs. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”
They’re quiet for a moment. Ransom looks out to watch the ocean, and Brad watches Ransom. His hair is slicked back from his swim and there’s still water dripping off his skin. He’s got on a pair of dark, Starfleet-regulation swim trunks and nothing else, and Brad can see the thick line of muscle under his skin, even as he sits, relaxed, next to him. He’s sat sideways in the chair, leaned back on his hands. One of them is awfully close to Brad’s boot.
“Where are you from, Ensign?” Ransom asks. He’s still looking out at the ocean.
“Modesto,” says Brad. “In California.”
“You miss it?”
“I… yeah, sometimes,” says Brad, but really, he doesn’t. “I was just thinking about it.”
Ransom’s gaze slides over to him. “Got a family there?”
“Yeah.”
Ransom nods. “Good,” he says. “It’s always good to have people to go back to.”
Brad hadn’t really thought of any alternative. “I… I guess so, yeah.”
“So, why do you want to climb the ranks so badly? What’s the rush?”
“I want to be in command,” says Brad. “I want to call the shots, and make the big decisions.”
“Those big decisions come with consequences,” says Ransom. “You have to be ready for that.”
“I am!” says Brad. “I am ready, I was a great student, and I’m good at my job, and I know everything there is to know about Starfleet, and I’m… I’m ready!”
Ransom grins at him. “You’ll be a great captain, one day,” he says.
“One day soon,” says Brad.
“You know, Riker passed up multiple offers to command his own ship so that he could serve on the Enterprise with Picard,” says Ransom. “He could have been a captain a lot sooner, but he chose to wait until he was ready.”
“That’s good for him,” says Brad, “but I’m ready now.”
Ransom laughs again, and Brad frowns. He’s not really enjoying being laughed at, especially over his future as a captain.
“Don’t you want to be captain one day?” he asks.
“One day,” says Ransom with a nod. “I like where I am now, on the Cerritos, with Captain Freeman. I know I’ll make captain, just when the time comes.”
“You’re willing to just… wait around until it happens?”
Ransom rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not waiting around. I’m developing my skills and improving as an officer so that I can be a good captain. That’s what you’re doing, too.”
Brad throws back the rest of his drink and drops the glass in the sand. He really doesn’t think he has much more development he needs to do.
“I’m not fresh out of the academy anymore,” Brad laments. “I want to be captain by the time I’m thirty, at the latest, just like my heroes. If they can do it, why can’t I?”
“You can,” says Ransom. He shifts a little, turning so that he’s facing Brad. “Look, remind me when we’re back on the ship and I’ll get you on more away missions. You still have to do the dirty work, but I’ll get you some more experience on the ground. Okay?”
Brad nods, and he feels himself smiling. “Really?”
“Sure,” says Ransom, smiling back. “We’ll make sure you’re on the right track. In the meantime, celebrate your colleagues’ success. It’s important for any commanding officer to connect with their crew, you know.”
Brad nods, tucking away that advice. “That makes sense.”
“I’ve learned a lot in my many years on Starfleet. Old man like me, I’ll be thinking about retirement soon, but I’m happy to help the next generation learn the ropes.”
He’s obviously joking, giving Brad a hard time. Brad gives him a grin that’s also half a grimace, aware that he might have made an ass of himself.
“I know you’re not that old,” he admits, and the shyness he feels surprises him.
“Just turned thirty-two a few weeks ago, actually,” says Ransom.
“Really? Happy belated birthday, Commander.”
“Thanks,” says Ransom, but Brad can tell he’s shrugging him off.
“Not a fan of your birthday?”
“Usually, I don’t care that much,” Ransom admits. “This kind of felt like a big, one, though. I think I’ve got a year left before I’m officially in my mid-thirties,” he adds, squinting.
“Wow, I take it back, you’re super old,” says Brad, a small part of him panicking even as he says it. “I should back up, you could go supernova any second now.”
Ransom chuckles at that, and it makes Brad feel so light, so easy, that all of his other thoughts—the promotion, Barbara, Mariner—fly out of his head. Ransom has a nice laugh, and a good smile, and he’s sitting on a chair with Brad and dripping wet and it’s like his abs have abs—
“All right,” says Ransom. “I’d better get going. I mean it, though, come find me when we’re back on duty and we’ll talk.”
“Okay,” says Brad. “Thanks.”
He feels like Ransom is sitting so close to him. Also, it’s so hot out, even at nighttime when there’s a breeze coming off the water. And, is Ransom leaning in? Brad thinks he might be.
He is leaning in, to put a hand on Brad’s shoulder, probably for a friendly pat. Almost definitely for a friendly, collegial, totally unsexy pat.
Brad grabs him by the face and drags him the rest of the way in for a kiss.
Ransom jolts forward, body stiff with shock. Brad pulls back, embarrassed heat already flooding his cheeks. His hands are still on Ransom’s face, palms pressed against scratchy stubble, and he stares in shock into Ransom’s wide eyes.
“Crap,” he says. “I'm sorry, that was so stupid, I don’t know why I—”
“That wasn't what I meant,” says Ransom, eyes still wide.
“No, I know, I— I’m sorry, that wasn’t supposed to be—”
Brad’s tongue feels swollen in his mouth. He can’t get his words out. He feels like he’s going to throw up. What was he thinking? Now Ransom thinks he’s trying to sleep his way to command. Him! Brad Boimler!
“That’s not how this works,” says Ransom firmly, and the friendly atmosphere has dissipated and Brad is starting to think he’s headed for the brig. “It’s completely unethical to—”
“I know!” says Brad, standing, holding his hands up in surrender. “I know, uh, sir, I just… I'm so sorry. I would never—it was stupid. I'm so sorry, I just—”
“Did someone tell you I would allow this? Was it Mariner? Do the ensigns think they can screw around with me and… what? I’ll get them promoted?”
Brad takes a step back. Ransom looks furious, and Brad is the biggest idiot in the entire galaxy, and he's about to get himself fired.
“No one said anything, sir, I swear! I promise! I just… I wasn't thinking. I’m sorry, sir. I’m really sorry.”
Ransom looks him over, then shakes his head. He pushes past Brad, bumping into him, and stalks off.
Great.
As expected, Brad finds Tendi and Rutherford tittering about holodeck programming over their Risan Sunsets like a couple of Bynars while Mariner is drunkenly warning the newly-minted junior grade lieutenants that their new roles will require them to send their friends off to die during away missions. Brad drags her away from her horrified peers (now superiors).
“Hey!” she shouts. “There you are! Where ya been, Boimy?”
Brad steers her toward the bar. “Get me as drunk as you are.”
“Yes, sir, Captain Boimler, sir!”
He spends the night getting stupid with Mariner and his other friends, and he does his best to forget what had happened. Still, it gnaws at him. For all he knows, this could be his last day in Starfleet. He’ll have to pay the consequences tomorrow. Tonight, he tries to numb his anxiety as best as he can, but he can’t stop thinking about the faint scratch of Ransom’s stubble on his face, the anger he’d aimed at Brad.
Mariner does manage to get a group together for skinny dipping using her drunken, unimpeachable charisma, and Brad stumbles across the sand with them, pulling at their clothes until there’s a pile of uniforms by the shore and a group of nude Starfleet officers running through the waves. He splashes around with Rutherford and Tendi, tripping over his own feet in the water as he tries to keep himself upright. Mariner disappears, probably to hook up with a Selkie or go find a private area to puke her guts out. Eventually, the group of lower deckers disbands. It’s a quick shore leave; they’ll have to be back on the ship and starting their tour of duty in just a few hours.
Brad tugs his clothes back on over his wet skin and shakes the water out of his hair. He drags himself across the long stretch of beach back toward the station where the Cerritos is waiting, hopeful that he can catch at least a quick nap before his inevitable dismissal by Ransom. The sun will start rising soon, and he hadn’t stopped thinking about it all night. If only there was a way to—
Brad can’t believe it. As he makes his way back toward the ship, he spots a figure slumped in a lounge chair, right where Brad had been at the beginning of the night. He approaches, slowly, and… yes!
Brad’s about to either fix this entire situation or make it infinitely worse.
“Commander Ransom?”
Ransom twitches in his seat, startled. Brad quickly approaches and stands to face Ransom. He salutes.
Ransom looks significantly less fresh than he had several hours ago. He has bags under his eyes and his hair is limp around his ears. Still handsome as ever, but in a more disheveled way. He blinks and his eyes focus on Brad. He squints.
“You again?”
“Yeah, um. Me again. Sir.”
“What do you want?”
“I just wanted to say, again, that I’m really sorry, for before. I just… I wasn't thinking. It was stupid. I’m sorry.”
Ransom shifts in his place. He plants his feet on either side of his seat, making room. He pats the foot of the chair.
“Sit.”
He’s not wearing the same swim trunks he’d had on at the beginning of the night, but he’s got on shorts and a shortsleeved shirt, unbuttoned and fallen open. The abs still have abs. Brad sits.
“Out for a swim?” asks Ransom.
Brad nods. His own hair is still wet and dripping. His clothes rub uncomfortably on his damp skin.
“Some of the ensigns and the new LJGs went swimming.”
Ransom nods. “So you were able to go celebrate with them?”
Brad looks away.
“Before, I was just…” he doesn’t know how to explain it. His edges are fuzzy, and he feels like he’s stuck on the transporter, existing partially in two different places. “I was…”
“Disappointed?”
“Yeah. I guess so.” He looks at Ransom. “I had a parasite that was apparently making my girlfriend attracted to me, and when it came off, she dumped me. And then I didn’t get promoted. I know it would have been a long shot, it’s just… it’s just been kind of a disappointing week.”
Ransom leans forward, and Brad can smell the booze on his breath. Yellow alert, he thinks to himself.
“Sorry about your girlfriend. And the parasite.”
“Part of the job, right?” Brad tries, shrugging off the condolences.
Ransom scoffs, and he keeps watching Brad, keeps studying him.
“So, what happened before, then?” asks Ransom. “You had a rough week, got a little tipsy, and thought you'd fool around with your commanding officer on the beach, where anyone could see?”
“Um.” Brad’s face flushes. “I… was a lot tipsy, actually. Yeah, I really didn’t think a lot about the commanding officer part, or the everyone seeing part, to be honest.”
“And you weren't thinking about getting yourself a promotion?” asks Ransom, leaning somehow closer.
“I promise you, I wasn’t,” says Brad, his breath hitching, eyes locked on Ransom’s. “I wasn't really thinking at all, if you can believe it, sir.”
Ransom’s gaze is unwavering. “Okay,” he says, with a short nod. “I believe you.”
Ransom’s mouth hitches up in a small, tired-looking smile. Brad realizes he’s been leaning in with Ransom this entire time.
“Commander?” he asks.
Ransom grunts, “Stop thinking,” and he pulls Brad toward him.
Red alert! Brad’s brain supplies, but his eyes are already closing and he’s wrapping his arms around Ransom’s big, broad shoulders and he’s groaning at the feeling of Ransom’s hands on Brad's waist, his tongue in Brad’s mouth, and he figures he'll just go down with the ship, like any good captain would.
ii.
Brad slams his head into the ceiling above his bunk at the feeling of Mariner finger-walking her way up his shin.
“Ow! Why?”
“Did you think I was a parasite?” she asks with a grin.
Brad scoffs and swats her hand away. She laughs.
“How long do you think you had that thing hooked on you for?” she asks, leaning forward against the edge of his bunk. “Because I certainly didn’t clock it. You were as unfuckable as ever, by my calculations.”
“Thanks,” mutters Brad.
He rubs at the sore spot on his forehead.
“Hey, come on,” says Mariner. “There’s plenty of other Selkies in the sea.”
She throws him a wink, and Brad rolls his eyes.
The Cerritos crew is off to a slow, hungover start this morning. Brad’s pretty sure at least half haven’t made it on board yet and are still passed out on the beach somewhere. Captain Freeman will probably send some poor team of ensigns—himself included—to go round up the stragglers. But, he’s here, PADD in hand and dressed in a fresh uniform, going over his duties for the day, ready to start on time (so, fifteen minutes early), so long as Mariner doesn’t keep bothering him.
“Do you want something?” he asks.
“No,” she says. “Ransom does, though, and he just told me to come find you and send you to his office.”
“What?!” shrieks Brad.
Of course, he hadn’t forgotten about what had happened last night. And then, what had happened again, early this morning. He just hadn’t really expected the harbinger of his fate to be Mariner, of all people.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Mariner grimaces. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think he knows your name. He just grabbed me in the hallway and told me to go find the guy I’d stabbed with a mek’leth and send him to his office…”
Great. Perfect.
“So I said, first of all, dude, it was a bat’leth, and second of all, I didn't stab you, I just barely grazed your leg—”
Brad swings out of his bunk and cradles his PADD to his chest. He probably won’t even get the chance to clean the holodeck filters. He’ll be sent packing before the Cerritos takes off, left here on this ocean planet to figure out his next move.
He won’t even get to feel the sweet hum of the warp core before he gets kicked out. He hopes Ransom will at least give him the chance to say goodbye to it, before he leaves. And also his friends, of course.
Mariner’s hand lands on his shoulder. Brad realizes he's about to cry.
“Aww, what’s with the lip quiver? It’s okay, Boimler, don't worry about it. It’s not like you're getting fired.”
“What else could it be?” asks Brad, but he knows Mariner wouldn’t know.
As expected, she shrugs. “I don’t know, honestly. But you’ll be fine, I promise! You’re, like, the least fireable guy ever. Go get it over with. I’ll catch up with you later.”
She gives him a light punch on the shoulder and leaves for the mess hall, because her version of on time for her duties is thirty minutes late and carrying a cup of coffee. Brad watches her go, absorbing her words.
Get it over with.
Okay. He should just get it over with. He clutches his PADD close to his chest and heads for the turbolift.
Unsurprisingly, Commander Ransom’s office is filled with workout equipment. It’s a small comfort to know that he at least has to work for all of those muscles. A tiny, minuscule, iota of a comfort, actually, because Brad has a lot more to worry about than how Ransom stays so buff.
He sits behind his desk, three shiny pips gleaming in Brad’s face, looking down at a PADD. When Brad comes in, he salutes, like he always does.
Because it feels necessary, he says, “Ensign Brad Boimler, sir.”
Ransom looks up from his PADD, and Brad’s surprised to see that he still looks a little disheveled. Granted, his uniform is pressed and his hair is perfectly styled in that carefully messy way, but his eyes are a bit sunken in, and his complexion looks a little gray. Brad’s still pushing past a night of drinking and almost no sleep, but he’s pretty sure Ransom’s got it worse. He tries to remember if Ransom had looked that bad last night, and his face flushes.
“At ease, Ensign,” says Ransom, and his voice is rough.
Brad drops his hand. There’s a long, unbearable pause.
Ransom looks back at his PADD and taps the screen for a second. He reads for another long moment, then glances up at Brad.
“Bradward Boimler. Spotless record. Graduated the academy and joined the Cerritos in ’79.”
“That’s me, sir.”
Ransom sighs. He puts the PADD on the desk. Brad’s cheeks flush again, and he forces himself to meet Ransom’s face, to confront the end of his Starfleet career head-on.
“I’d like to discuss options with you, Ensign,” says Ransom.
Brad nods. He can’t speak. Options? As in, get left here, on Pacifica? Or get dropped at the nearest station? Or get thrown out the airlock mid-warp?
“First, I’d like you to know that you are free, at any point, to discuss this with any other senior officer, including Captain Freeman. I can see that you’re uncomfortable, and I don’t blame you. I just... I wanted to talk to you about this, first.”
“Cap… Captain Freeman?” Brad asks, voice meek.
He’s barely interacted with the captain, except when he’d first joined and she’d given him an impersonal handshake in welcome. And then there was that whole thing about her asking him to snitch on Mariner. Why would he talk to her about this?
“She is my superior,” says Ransom. “It’s protocol. But, if you choose to file an official complaint, that would go through—”
“Hold on,” says Brad, and he’s starting to realize he might not actually be getting fired. “A complaint? Sir?”
Ransom, to his credit, looks uncomfortable, and Brad’s slow-moving, alcohol-soaked brain tries to solve the puzzle. Ransom seems to steel himself, and he goes on.
“Yes,” he says. “I called you in here to let you know that I take full responsibility for what happened last night, and I want you to understand that there will be no retaliation if you choose to file a complaint. It’s your right to do so, under Starfleet regulations. I won't stop you, and I won’t make it more difficult for you. You are protected under those regulations as my subordinate. What happened… should not have, and I… I want you to know that I am willing to accept the consequences of my actions.” His eyes meet Brad’s, big and brown and terribly sincere, and he adds, “And I am very, very sorry.”
Brad blinks, so shocked he nearly drops his PADD. Ransom is sorry? Hadn’t Brad been the one to cross a line?
“Um, sir, I… I don’t… you don’t have to be sorry,” he says, lamely.
He thinks, for a moment, of how they’re positioned. Ransom is sitting while Brad stands, looking down at him. The desk is a barrier between them. Ransom was trying to make Brad comfortable, to give him space, to make him feel empowered, Brad realizes. He thinks he’s in the wrong, not Brad. Ransom shakes his head.
“I am your superior on this ship, and it is inappropriate for any superior to pursue their subordinates. Especially given such a significant difference in rank,” (Ugh, way to rub it in.) “what happened last night was unacceptable.”
Brad blinks again. The puzzle comes together. Ransom doesn’t remember.
“Sir,” says Brad, carefully. How does he put this delicately? “I am not sure if… you may be… um, okay, well… I’ll just say it. I was the one who, um, initiated things… last night. At least, the first time.”
Ransom’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “There was more than one time?”
“Um. Yeah. Just the two, though, and it wasn’t like… it wasn’t, um, like it was really long, either time.”
Ransom squints at that, almost like he doesn’t believe Brad, and Brad is just so thankful that he gets a second chance at a real first impression with Ransom and he’s putting his foot in his mouth trying to explain that he’d been the one to stupidly kiss Ransom, and not the other way around.
“Okay,” says Ransom, slowly. “Regardless of who… initiated, it was still inappropriate for me to engage. I highly suggest you at least discuss this with Dr. Migleemo to work through things, completely confidentially, of course.” His face flushes. “If needed, I would also suggest contacting a member of the medical staff, for any needed emergency contraception, unless, um—”
“That’s not necessary!” Brad shouts. “Sir, it wasn’t—look, you clearly don’t remember, but it really wasn’t... it wasn’t anything, okay?” He takes a breath. He’s got Ransom’s attention, so he just blurts it out. “Look, I was… I was annoyed because I didn’t get the promotion, and my girlfriend dumped me, and I had a parasite—” Ransom’s eyes widen. “It’s gone now! It’s been gone! And you… you had been swimming, and we were talking, you know, just… just the two of us, and…” He sighs, thinking of that brief moment of excitement when Ransom had offered to help him advance in his career. “You were being a really good boss, actually, and I was being stupid and I kissed you, and you… you thought I was… being…” Brad looks away. He’s not even sure he really needs to be saying all of this, but the idea that Ransom sees himself as some kind of predator because of this really doesn't sit right. “You left. That was… that was it. So, I mean it, it wasn’t you. Sir. It was me.”
Ransom eyes him, taking in the information, probably now actually considering firing Brad.
“I’m sorry,” says Brad, as if that’ll help.
For the second time in one morning, they’re having this debrief. Brad’s the luckiest boy in Starfleet.
“And the second time?”
“Um. Well, that, I guess, was a little more... collaborative.”
Brad thinks back to how the night had ended, how Ransom had held him and how it had actually been really nice, and they’d both been tired after a long night swimming and drinking. He remembers sweating under his uniform while Ransom held him in his lap, making out lazily like they were teenagers in the back of a car in some old movie. And then, Ransom had pulled back and told Brad to head to the ship and get some sleep. Brad had agreed, too tired to do anything else, anyway, and Ransom had helped him up and kissed him one more time and stayed to… to do what, Brad’s not sure. But that had been it.
He tries to explain as much, but he fumbles over the words, struggling to separate what they’d done from the way he’d felt, and too embarrassed to admit how nice it had been, to end such an emotionally tumultuous day with some good old-fashioned making out on the beach. Ransom listens, and Brad’s still not sure he really gets it, and it’s weird how much Brad has to convince this guy that he hadn’t taken advantage of him the night before.
“I… I kind of thought you were calling me in to fire me, to be honest,” says Brad.
“Fire you?” asks Ransom. “Why would I do that?”
“Well… at first, I mean, it had kind of seemed like… maybe you thought that I was, you know, trying to get ahead.” Brad flushes again. Is he in a holodeck program, designed by Mariner to embarrass him as much as possible? “Which, I promise you, I’m not… I mean, well, I am, but not… not like that. And, well… you did think that, actually. You were pretty mad about it. But I promise, that wasn’t what it was.”
“I see,” says Ransom, and he looks down. He drums his fingers on his desk, thoughtful. He looks up at Brad. “Listen, here’s what’s going to happen. It sounds like we both weren’t… ourselves, last night, and… we don’t have to blame anyone. Let’s just… forget it happened, and move on. Okay?”
“Yes!” says Brad. That’s the best idea he’s ever heard in his life. “Yes, that sounds perfect, sir.”
“If you’re lying to me,” says Ransom, “and you walk out this door and file a complaint with Captain Freeman, I will not fight you on it, okay? I mean it. I will not retaliate. That is not how the Cerritos operates.”
“I’m not going to,” Brad promises. “You didn’t do anything wrong, sir.”
Ransom still doesn’t seem to believe him, but he presses on. “There is no statute of limitations on this. You can come forward at any time.”
“I’m not going to!” says Brad, more emphatically.
Ransom sighs. “Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” says Brad, nodding. He swallows. “Should we still… fill out some forms, or something? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”
“Yeah, that's not necessary,” says Ransom. “Fraternization forms are only required if it’s, you know, the real deal. If this crew had to fill something out for every one-time thing, we’d be up to our ears in pointless forms. We’d never get any real work done. Hell, most of the time when people do fill out forms around here, the relationship’s over before we even get a chance to review.”
“Oh,” says Brad.
“Yeah,” Ransom agrees. “Not a real romantically committed crew.”
“I guess not,” says Brad with a small laugh.
He looks at his shoes and thinks of Barbara. He wonders if she had even thought about filling out fraternization forms for him.
There’s another pause, and Brad looks up to see Ransom studying him, much like he had last night. It’s a little off-putting, being the target of Ransom’s scrutiny.
“Is there anything else, sir?” asks Brad.
“No,” says Ransom. He drums his fingers on his desk again, then adds, as if he can’t help himself, “Hang in there, Ensign. Keep working hard, and you’ll get the promotion before you know it. And, you know… there’ll be other girls.”
Ransom is practically wincing as he says it, but Brad kind of appreciates the attempt at consolation. He smiles and gives Ransom a nod.
“Thanks, Commander.”
“All right. Dismissed.”
Brad leaves with another salute, feeling somehow incredibly embarrassed yet also light as air. He wasn’t fired! He’d made an ass of himself in front of his commander, but he wasn’t fired!
He decides to go pay the warp core a visit, just for a quick celebration. At this rate, he’ll only be about ten minutes early to his first task of the day, but he’ll allow it, just this once.