“Morning.”

The voice was sweet and whisper soft. Guiding one to wakefulness, not barging in and snapping at her. It was exactly the sort of greeting she hadn’t heard in a while.

“Morning,” Willow purred back, reaching out for the voice. Her hand found nothing, not even a bed. There should have at least been a bed. That realisation struck her hard, jolting all sleep from her brain.

Eyes shot open as she realised she wasn’t in her quarters. Or asleep on the floor of the conference room, as she had told Commander Sadovu she would. And upon recognising the captain’s ready room, she shot up in terror.

At least the voice that had woken her wasn’t the captain.

Katlyn Mianaai, the captain’s yeoman and semi-passable pilot, was standing there, just out of reach. She watched for a second before holding out a steaming cup to Willow. “Compliments of the house,” Katlyn said, trying for a smile that just didn’t work on the young woman’s face like she probably thought it did.

The first sip of coffee, usually a panacea against bad nights and worse mornings, did nothing. The act was just a way of delaying the inevitable crashing down on her that she was imagining. The commander had set her up and the captain would bring his disappointed look to bear on her.

“Is -” she started to say, choking before she could eek out another word.

“Is the captain angry with you?” Katlyn asked, waiting for a confirmatory nod. “No. Commander Sadovu, on the other hand, he is annoyed at.”

“Great, so just the commander is going to be mad at me,” Willow complained to herself, trying for a second sip and hoping it might help. It didn’t.

“For something she did?” Katlyn asked. Then she shrugged before an answer came. “Captain’s head has a shower. Fresh uniform is there.” She raised a hand to point at the corner of Captain MacIntyre’s desk.

“What, no breakfast as well?” Willow asked, aiming for snarky and immediately regretting her words.

“You’re invited to sit with the captain in the Pnyx in fifteen minutes.” Katlyn looked her over and Willow distinctly didn’t like the feeling. “Or should I inform him it’ll be twenty?”

“I don’t think we’ll need twenty,” she quipped. And winced as soon as she finished speaking. A third didn’t help start her brain any more than the previous two.

“You wish,” Katlyn snapped back. At least the vague sneer looked natural on the woman’s face. “I’ll tell him twenty.”

And she was gone.

“Fuck,” Willow muttered before downing the rest of the coffee in one go. “Me.”

The shower she kept quick, not abusing the extended hospitality. But the blessings of an actual hot water shower and fresh clothes had done wonders to bring her into the here and now. Much more prepared now to face the day, and the captain, she headed to the Pnyx with haste.

The place was abandoned, save for the captain himself perched at the bar. A smattering of different breakfast dishes had been set along the bar, drinks as well. The invitation to a seat at his side didn’t need to be voiced again.

Captain MacIntyre’s face was expressionless as he sipped at a cup while flicking through something on a padd before him. But as the door closed behind Willow, he turned, offering a gentle smile. “Lieutenant, what’ll it be?”

“Sir?” She approached as he set the padd down, reaching over the bar for an empty cup. “Oh, um, raktijino. Or coffee.”

The captain checked one carafe, then another, before pouring from it. “Tell me, is my daybed a comfy sleep?”

“Sir, I –”

“Lieutenant, answer the question,” he said, setting the cup down in front of the seat to his left.

“It’s a bit stiff for my liking,” she answered as she sat down, checking the cup and delighted to see the darker raktijino swirling around in it.

MacIntyre smirked slightly. “I thought so too,” he said. “It’s to encourage captains to actually retire from the bridge and go sleep in their own beds. And now, I think we can conclude, it does the same for young Lieutenant Junior Grade officers, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m not going to bite,” the captain reassured her. “It was the commander’s decision to let you sleep there versus, I understand, your intent to sleep in the conference room.” He nodded along with her. “And Commander Sadovu has taken full responsibility for her actions.”

“Her actions?” she asked.

“Slipping you a mild sedative.” The captain’s smirk at her shocked expression wasn’t, she felt, appreciated. “You needed to rest, Lieutenant. I don’t agree with the commander’s methods, but I do find it difficult to argue with her intent. I’ve told her to apologise to you and, if you want to press any charges, I ask you let me know before approaching the JAG.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.” She hid her anger as best she could behind her cup. “How long did I sleep?”

“Nine hours,” he answered. “Help yourself,” he continued, starting to pick at the pikelets and fresh fruit arrayed before them. “Do you feel rested?”

“Honestly sir, best I have in days.” She copied him, her stomach finally recognising food and deciding to lodge its complaints. Complaints marginally satisfied after pouring half the maple syrup jug onto her pikelets. “Ready to get back in the saddle. After breakfast.”

“After breakfast and after a visit to sickbay.” His tone of voice conveyed the order easily. And the implication of ‘do not disobey and do not argue.’ “You’re not flying until Doctor Pisani says you’re okay to fly. And that she’s rounded up all our space-sick boys and girls.”

That last bit brought out a chuckle she aborted as quick as she could. The idea of people who lived in space who couldn’t handle slight wobbles from inertial compensators as she threw Republic around was a joke. Credit for where it was due in persisting in their careers, at least. And it wasn’t like she was always flying on…intuition?

“And if Blake says you’re taking some time off to relax, you’re taking time off. Am I clear, Lieutenant?”

“I just had to give a slight course correction.” She’d been holding back that defence since she’d walked in. And it felt good to get it off her chest. “And I’m the only one who can fly us through the Blackout.”

The captain nodded in agreement, chewing through a mouthful of his breakfast before pointing at her with a fork. “You’re right. Which means we can’t lose you. You are, Lieutenant, mission critical. That means, if I want my ship to get anywhere, I need you. And I need you operating at peak.”

“Sir –”

“Lieutenant,” he cut her off. “If the engines were giving us warning signs, we’d stop and let Chief Malcolm look them over, yes?”

“Yes, sir.” Not that Malcolm would ever let his engines get in such a state, she thought. Or ask to stop. He’d just do it and loudly claim it’s his responsibility as chief engineer.

“And if the nav sensors were playing up, we’d do much the same, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, when my chief helmsman is sleeping poorly and not taking great care of herself, and just so happens to be the only one who can fly through this whole mess, I’m going to get the opinion of my chief medical officer before I let her fly again. Seems fair?”

She swallowed her pride and nodded. Then kept nodding. “Yes, sir.”

“Glad you agree,” he said, before diving back into his breakfast. “I’m serious when I say I need you, Willow. A lot of people need you.”

They sat in silence, eating, the ominous tone in the captain’s voice from his last proclamation hanging over them. Then he excused himself, repeated his order to visit sickbay, then left. The Pnyx suddenly became oppressive in the absence of the only other person present. Like the largest trap she’d ever been caught in, waiting for it to spring on her.

So she was shocked and surprised for the second time that morning when she looked up from her second plate of pikelets to see the ship’s resident Romulan standing before her. Revin was just standing there, a smile on her face that made Willow feel even more trapped than when she thought the room was empty.

“God dammit. How long have you been there?” she asked, pushing her plate away, appetite suddenly gone.

“Long enough,” Revin answered. “He really does care for you.”

“The captain?” She cast a quick look at the door. “He’s just being a captain.”

“Which is why he’s also concerned about something else and kept reiterating all of that ‘need you’ rhetoric.” Revin stepped up to the bar from the far side and set a small container down in front of her. “And I know you just want to get back behind the helm and fly. So, consider these,” Revin pushed the container closer, “a gift from me, to you, to use to bribe Doctor Pisani.”

“What, I bring her some pastries and she’ll clear me to fly?”

“Pastries might keep you off of bedrest. Macaroons will let you fly.” Revin looked so pleased with herself, the grin reminding Willow of the Cheshire Cat.

“Why are you helping me?” Willow asked, squinting her eyes at Revin.

“Because when all of this is over and we have some free time, you are going to teach me to fly a shuttle.” No argument, no discussion. Revin was just politely informing Willow of a universal fact that seemed like it had always existed and was just now being revealed to her.

“Also, you have a glow about you,” Revin continued.

“What?”

“Here.” Revin turned in one continuous motion, collecting a serving tray from the back counter before flipping it over as an ad hoc mirror. “See?”

It was a passable mirror, all things considered. And sure enough, she could see what the Romulan woman was talking about. Not some metaphorical glow you might say someone had after a good night out. Or a hard one. But an actual glow. Faint, barely noticeable. Vaguely golden in colour. It framed her head on either side, looping around behind her as it tangled with her hair.

She snatched the tray from Revin, pulling it closer to inspect the reflection. And as she looked at it more, the glow started to fade, disappearing in just a few seconds.

“What the fuck?” she asked, dropping the tray to challenge Revin.

Who had disappeared as easily as she’d appeared.

“Seriously, what the fuck?”