Noel DelMonde reluctantly pulled the microphone in front of him close enough to speak into. “Okay, lissen up, y'all,” he announced to the crowd of diners milling around in Rec Room 5. “By virtue o' my fellow band members courageously takin' a simultaneous step backwards…” He turned to give them all a pointed look which none of them returned. “I been elected spokesman fo' the group. As you can tell from the way we tunin' up instruments 'stead o' sharpenin' up knives an' forks, we have gone through the hellish rigmarole it takes t' get permission to give a li'l concert fo' you right now. So you need t' sit down, shut up, or…. get th' fuck out, I guess.”
A few of his fellow crew members blinked at him.
“No offense,” he apologized sourly. “…but there three other friggin' places you can eat on this deck alone.”
He took in a deep irritated breath as their audience mumbled to itself. Public speaking was so much easier when someone wrote down all the words in advance… Del caught himself on the edge of wishing Dave Calvin’s people were here to whip something up for him. He gave an exasperated look back to his band. Sharon Intansah gave him a solemn thumbs up. Geoff Redford mouthed, “You’re doing great!” Mrraal just gave him a cat face… whatever that meant.
“As I was sayin',” Del continued grudgingly. “This a concert, not one o' those damned jam sessions I hear y'all been havin'. So don’t be prancin' your clueless ass up here wi' whatever Aldeberan nose flute you might have in your pocket an' 'spect us to follow your lead through some Martian Drocadic Fusion. Which…” The engineer paused, frowned then added, “Don’t ask fo' that shit anyway… ‘Cause that is some shit music there.”
More people were staring at him.
“I sorry, but you jus' need to learn not to like shit music like that,” the Cajun informed them adamantly emboldened by his firm convictions on this point. “If you do like it, then, no offence, but you need to jus' fuck off right now an' go get your mind right on what constitutes good music, ‘cause we not gonna do no shit music like that… Which brings me to my second point – No requests. First, b'cause… well, fuck you. We givin' you a concert. You not need to be askin' fo' shit on top o' that. Second, we only know 'bout seven or eight songs, so do the math. What the odds we gonna know the shit you ask for? Third, we gonna do all the seven or eight songs we know, so you can sit your ass down an' wait, or…”
“Fuck off?” someone in the crowd guessed, much to the amusement of his fellows.
“I t'ink you beginnin' to get the gist of this speech,” Del congratulated him.
“What’s the name of your band, Del?” another diner called.
Del shrugged as he pulled his guitar into playing position. “Oh, we not got that far yet, either, so…”
“Fuck off?” a wit surmised.
“No offense,” someone else added.
Del rolled his eyes. “I startin' to t'ink some o' y’all must have got a copy o' my speech 'fore I did. So wit'out further ado, here is Sherrie an' the Shy Boys an' our rendition of… whatever the hell it is we gonna play first… since I not the one who got the damned play list.” The engineer directed this last towards his keyboardist, who he assumed did.
Redford blushed crimson and mouthed, “Sorry!” then tried to make gestures that would give him the title as if they were playing pantomimes and could not speak.
Del sighed and turned to his drummer. “Count it off, man.”
“Su, sa, si, so,” the Caitian growled softly as he tapped his big padded feet. He then began to beat a driving, infectious rhythm out on a small tom-tom-like drum he held in his lap.
TO HEAR THE SONG, CLICK HERE Apologies for the female voice.
Intasha added in a bare bass line
Del added to the beat by drumming on the body of his guitar.
“There's a fire starting in my heart,”
he sang.
Reaching a fever pitch, it's bringing me out the dark
Finally I can see you crystal clear
Go 'head and sell me out and I'll lay your shit bare.”
Mrraal added a pounding heartbeat to the mix.
There's a fire starting in my heart
“See how I leave with every piece of you
Don't underestimate the things that I will do
Reaching a fever pitch
And it's bringing me out the dark”
Redford joined his keyboards to the mix.
“The scars of your love remind me of us
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless
I can't help feeling
We could have had it all
Rolling in the deep
You had my heart inside of your hand
And you played it, to the beat.”
Despite his wish to remain aloof before the crowd of near-strangers, Del’s voice took on the echoes of his own pain and anger.
The scars of your love remind me of us
“You’re gonna wish you never had met me,”“Baby, I have no story to be told
Intansah and Redford warned in the backup line.
But I've heard one on you
And I'm gonna make your head burn
Think of me in the depths of your despair
Make a home down there
As mine sure won't be shared
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless
I can't help feeling
We could have had it all
“Tears are gonna fall. Rolling in the deep.”
Rolling in the deep
You had my heart inside of your hand
And you played it, to the beat
We could have had it all
Rolling in the deep
You had my heart inside of your hand
But you played it, with a beating
In what was for Del, the commonplace alchemy of music, the bitterness in his soul mingled with present or remembered aches in the hearts of his listeners. He pushed the melody forward as their collective, defiant cry against the galactic unfairness that was the eternal story of love gone wrong.
We could have had it all
“Throw your soul through every open door
Count your blessings to find what you look for
Turn my sorrow into treasured gold
You’ll pay me back in kind and reap just what you sow
We could have had it all
We could have had it all
It all, it all, it all
Rolling in the deep
You had my heart inside of your hand
But you played it
You played it
You played it
You played it to the beat.”
As sometimes happened the first time Del played for an audience who had never before experienced his style of tele/empathy seasoned music, his listeners didn’t applaud. They sat staring in open-mouthed, what-just-happened wonder for a second.
“An', if any of y'all are wonderin',” the Cajun said into the stunned silence, “Yes, ever't'hing we gonna play gonna be that same sort o' mean, bitter, lovesick shit played loud 'nough to bust duranium-plated eardrums. So if you not like that style…”
“Fuck off!” his audience called back as a delighted cheer.
“Y'all in the spirit now.” The engineer smiled and nodded. “So put your hands together fo' Mister Meow-Meow an' the Pussycats an' our rendition of… whatever the title o' the next damned song gonna be. Hit it, man.”
Even without the playlist, Del had no trouble recognizing the distinctive hook of the next song.
“Loving you
he sang, feeling the words tear from his soul.
Isn't the right thing to do”
How can I
Ever change things that I feel?
If I could
Maybe I'd give you my world
How can I
When you won't take it from me?
His band joined him for the chorus.
You can go your own way!
Go your own way
You can call it another lonely day
You can go your own way!
Go your own way
He thought he could feel a hint of a listening awareness.
Tell me why
He sang to it.
Everything turned around?
Packing up
Shacking up's all you wanna do
If I could
Baby I'd give you my world
Open up
Everything's waiting for you
You can go your own way!
Go your own way
You can call it another lonely day
You can go your own way!
Go your own way
You can go your own way!
Go your own way
You can call it another lonely day
Another lonely day
You can go your own way!
Go your own way
You can call it another lonely day
You can go your own way
You can call it another lonely day
You can go your own way
The audience was ready to applaud this time. Looking up to acknowledge their response, Del thought he saw a flash of gold hair as someone exited the room.
“Okay,” he said taking in a deep breath, control the urge to throw his guitar aside and run after the person he may have only imagined was there. “Hold on to your hats, people. An' listen up fo' this next tune – whatever it is -- brought to you by Lil’ Geoffie an' the Redbones…”
As if they were telepaths, his bandmates began to play an upbeat run of chords.
TO HEAR THE SONG, CLICK HERE Again, apologies for the female voice.
You know the bed feels warmer
he sang willing the words to be true.
Sleeping here alone,
You know I dream in colour
And do the things I want
You think you got the best of me
Think you've had the last laugh
Bet you think that everything good is gone
Think you left me broken down
Think that I'd come running back
Baby you don't know me, cause you're dead wrong
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, his band helped him sing.
Stand a little taller
Doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone
What doesn't kill you makes a fighter
Footsteps even lighter
Doesn't mean I'm over cause you're gone
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, stronger, he told his wounded soul.
Just me, myself and I
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger
Stand a little taller
Doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone
You heard that I was starting over with someone new
But told you I was moving on over you
You didn't think that I'd come back
I'd come back swinging
You try to break me but you see
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger
Stand a little taller
Doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone
What doesn't kill you makes a fighter
Footsteps even lighter
Doesn't mean I'm over 'cause you're gone
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, stronger
Just me, myself and I
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger
Stand a little taller
Doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone
Thanks to you I got a new thing started. he lied.
Thanks to you I'm not the broken-hearted
Thanks to you I'm finally thinking 'bout me
You know in the end the day you left was just my beginning
In the end
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger
Stand a little taller
Doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone
What doesn't kill you makes a fighter
Footsteps even lighter
Doesn't mean I'm over 'cause you're gone
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, stronger
Just me, myself and
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger
Stand a little taller
Doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone
Music didn’t change things, Del knew as he and his band repeated the chorus, but somehow it always helped make the bad a little easier to swallow.
"Mr. Sulu."
Sulu turned at the sound of Dr. Han's voice. She was coming up behind him, both of them clearly headed for their respective quarters. He waited for her to catch up, then asked, "What can I do for you, Doctor?"
"Mr. DelMonde certainly seems to be integrating well into the crew," she replied, "in large measure due to the cooking contest." She gave him a brief smile. "It was an excellent suggestion."
Sulu's returned smile was just the tiniest bit sour. "Well, as I told you, it wasn't all mine."
"Jilla said your friend, Jeremy Paget, had served with Mr. DelMonde on the Hood and so knew to be concerned."
"Yeah, they - well, we've all been friends for a long time."
Jade cocked her head. "You don't seem very pleased with the outcome of your handiwork," she commented.
"Who knew Del was gonna be such an ass about it," the helmsman muttered.
"If you've known him for years, Mr. Sulu," Jade offered, "I would have thought you did."
Sulu glanced up to see Jade's dark eyes filled with mirth. He sighed, then shrugged. "I guess I did," he admitted.
"The reality is simply more annoying than you had anticipated?" the doctor guessed.
"Doctor," Sulu said abruptly, as if changing the subject, "would you say, based on your observations, that point of the contest has succeeded in Del's case? I mean, he's, as you said, integrating well, yes?"
"Yes," Jade returned, drawing out the word cautiously.
"What do you think are the odds that he'd return to his old patterns if he happened to lose in a few categories?"
"No greater than those that he'll return to his old patterns after the contest is over anyway," she answered warily.
"Would it destroy his morale?"
"If he still has any after Ruth's marriage, I doubt it." Jade crossed her arms, having already guessed where this was going. "Why do you ask?" she said anyway.
"Because I have to beat his ass back to the stone age in at least one category or I'll explode," the helmsman mumbled.
Jade nodded sagely. "Well, have fun, Mr. Sulu," she said, and turned to walk into her cabin.
“Lieutenant.”
Usually the ability to know someone was looking for you before they actually found you was one of the real advantages to being a telepath. However, on the unfortunate occasions when the telepath couldn’t get away from the person, forewarning only prolonged the suffering.
Del didn’t usually even eat breakfast. However he and a couple other good cooks from Third Watch had been roped into what the participants were calling “Taste Club” (which he definitely would not have agreed to if he’d had any notion they were going to have any kind of lame-ass name for it) by Chekov, Jon Holden, Dave Kelly, and a couple other Mr. Friendly type dumbasses from the First Watch. Del and the other experts were treated to the disgusting messes Chekov and his equally hopeless pals had managed to throw together after their duty shift, in hopes that one of them could find a way to explain to them how make the shit they cooked up any less nauseating. The whole business was pretty annoying. Del would have bowed out had there not been one guy in the group who had seriously mis-classified himself. This poor soul persisted in putting himself in the remedial class when in actuality, he’d managed to come up with an approximation of smoked ham so lip-smackingly authentic one could imagine the echoes of oinking. On top of this, a few smart-alecks would send over “flawed” dishes every time anyone saw them gather in hopes of psyching him out or putting him in a position to praise them. Again, annoying, but the best eating he’d had for months. He assumed it was in this vein that Leonard McCoy had sent over a plate of angel biscuits whose only discernible flaw was that they were missing real wings and halos…
And so it was that instead of beating a dignified retreat as soon as his brain alerted him that Ruth’s Vulcan was on his trail, Del ended up awkwardly trying to swallow as much as he could of the best Martian rice ball this side of Demos.
“Mr. DelMonde.” The point-earred demon loomed over him.
At least choking on rice ball did give him an excuse to answer in the form of, “Urhm...” instead of “sir.”
“Your corrected quarterly reports were acceptable,” the fiend informed him coolly.
A quick swallow of coffee allowed the engineer to reply with something that sounded close to, “Good.”
“And,” his tormenter continued, “I have approved a set of measures Mr. Scott sent forward to streamline the GDPA reporting process.”
Although the Vulcan was not trailing clouds of flame and sulfur this time, Del kept a wary eye on him, waiting on the other cloven-hoofed shoe to fall. “Uh-huh.”
“I am informed most of these suggestions originated with you.”
The Cajun frowned. This conversation seemed to be leaning perilously close to becoming complimentary – however Satan was known for his power to deceive… “Uh-huh.”
“I believe the new, abbreviated format has the potential to encourage compliance and therefore could result in significantly increased efficiency.”
“Uh-huh…” By God, Lucifer was trying to compliment him…! Del was more profoundly confounded by this turn of events than he would have been if the Vulcan had pulled a lirpa out of his pocket and tried to swipe off the top of his head. “Uhm… I hope they will…” Damn his green hide but that son of a bitch had a way of stretching out a silence with his eyebrow all cocked until a person was forced to spit out, “… sir.”
“Carry on, Lieutenant.” The Vulcan took a look at the overloaded table of culinary near-misses, then quirked his lips as if he was thinking about how glad he was to be a vegetarian at that moment. “Gentlemen.”
“Mr. Spock,” the other members of the Taste Club chorused affectionately after him as he exited.
Del could tell from the little smiles his fellow officers directed at their plates that he had just been quite completely decimated by the Vulcan form of killing with kindness.
“Fuck all y'all,” he warned his peers.
“Taste this for me, Del,” Davie Kelly requested, pushing something grey-pink and lumpy before him. “What do I need to add?”
Secretly relieved to be getting back to an area in which he was sure of his expertise, the Cajun put the bare tip an imperious finger to the mess then touched his tongue gingerly to the sample. “Boric acid,” he decided.
“That’ll make it taste right?” Kelly asked.
“No, it’ll dissolve it well enough that you not clog th' pipes when you pour it down the disposer,” Del replied archly. He looked at his pupils sternly, recovering his balance as quickly as a cat who’d almost fallen off a fence. “I t'ink we need to review what I done told you 'bout startin' a mix…”
Jilla watched as Sulu paced in their cabin, occasionally going to the computer to key in refinements to his contest recipes, and muttering under his breath. His tia was a mixture of all his usual emotions: desire, longing, intensity, joy, fear, passion, determination... But it was his competitiveness that colored all the others, a need that was almost a hunger, consuming him as it would a starving man. There was a sense of urgency about him, coupled with a deep yet unacknowledged apprehension - almost a dread - at the thought of losing.
After a few moments, the turmoil began to creep into her emotions as well, and she abruptly rose from her chair, intercepting him.
"Sulu, I think you are forgetting the purpose of this contest," she said gently.
"Purpose?" he answered distractedly. his eyes peering over her head as though he could read the computer screen from his current position.
"You are supposed to allow Mr. DelMonde to win," she reminded.
He glanced at her then, his lips pursed in frustration.
"I know, I know...." he said, then added, "but I have to make it a challenge, right? Jer said..."
The mild desperation in his tia told Jilla that he was only making excuses.
"Mr. Paget also said that you had to let DelMonde win," she repeated.
There was a burst of intense anger in Sulu's emotional landscape, quickly followed by guilt. He sighed.
"Yes, I know," he said, and this time, she could tell he meant it. "But...."
Jilla prepared herself for the emotional contradictions to be played out within him.
"Losing I can handle... most of the time...when it's honest... but losing to Del...." He paused, a rueful grin coming over his features. "At the Clave, he and I sort of... I mean, we were friends and all, but we had this sort of... friendly rivalry, I guess you'd call it."
She frowned in confusion. "But Mr. DelMonde is an engineer," she said. "You were a pilot. What could you have been rivals for?"
She waited for some indication of sexual tension or lust to overwhelm Sulu's emotions, but none came. What DID come to the fore was greed, an avarice that he himself often expressed as his 'mine, mine mine' selfishness.
His response, however, was as rueful as his smile. "Hell if I know," he said. "It's just always been like that. He just... gets so damned smug when he thinks he's won anything. And not just with me," he added, anger flaring once again. "He's always like that, with everything. And he can be such a smart-ass, and he always thinks he knows everything WAY before anyone else possibly could... though he IS a telepath and an empath and that certainly does give him an edge over the rest of us mere mortals...."
Understanding warred with irritation as Sulu continued, and Jilla found herself falling into his emotional roller-coaster. DelMonde certainly WAS arrogant. He thought nothing of contradicting their Chief about engineering matters. And his work WAS sloppy, even if superlative. And he had NO respect for the chain of command - or for Command in general. Or for the sanctity of marriage - though that caused her a twinge of self-recrimination. He was rude and insubordinate to Commander Spock, clearly and only because Ruth had chosen Spock over him - though he WAS rude to everyone. He took out perceived slights and hurts on those around him, though as one with strong gifts, his reactions were not always under his conscious control. He streamlined reports as though he were above regulations - even his name was streamlined; not only a nickname, which she did NOT understand, but using an abbreviated form of his last name because he was convinced rules were for other people....
She suddenly became aware that Sulu had stopped speaking some time ago and was now smiling tolerantly at her.
"See what I mean?" he asked.
She flushed, but nodded.
"So you see why I have to beat him in at least ONE category?" he went on.
"I do," Jilla replied.
"So if there were any way you could in some engineering manner see your way to giving me a little edge..."
"Sulu!" Jilla broke in abashed. "That would be unethical as well as dishonorable!"
He sighed, and hugged her. "I know," he said, kissing the top of her head. "It was just a thought.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry!" Daphne Gollub apologized preemptively in a tone that could only be described as sullen and angry abject terror. “I’m sorry, okay?”
Ruth Valley crossed her arms, very displeased to find that the chemist had sent out an urgent summons for Noel DelMonde to report to the galley as well. She shot a narrow look in the engineer’s direction before turning back to her friend with a frown. “This had better be good.”
“It’s not,” Gollub replied miserably. “It’s awful. It’s really, really awful.”
DelMonde knelt down in front of the opened panel of the prep unit with an irritated sigh. “What you done now?”
“I was just adjusting it,” the chemist protested. “A smidge. Nothing more, I swear…”
Ruth rolled her eyes and flipped the switch that would activate the unit’s diagnostic system. “Making Chekov cook faster will not make him cook any better.”
DelMonde frowned as he pulled a laser wrench – that obviously did not get there by itself -- out of the works.
“What?” the chemist asked, all irritable innocence.
“This not 'bout T-Paul at all, is it, cher?” he asked, holding the tool up accusingly. “I t'ink it 'bout me, non? You try to knock me out the contest.”
“You?” The chemist scoffed. “How?”
“By gettin' the list o' who gonna be put at which station fo' the contest tomorrow an' screwin' wit' the controls on mine,” the engineer suggested.
“How could I possibly get that information?” Gollub countered defensively.
Ruth bared her teeth in a non-smile. “Oh, I can think of a few ways…”
“Bribery,” DelMonde contributed.
“Hacking.” Ruth counted off on her fingers.
“Eavesdroppin'…”
“Blackmail…”
“Impersonatin' a judge…”
Gollub put her hands on her hips unappreciatively. “A regular Mata Hari I am?”
“Where there a will there a way,” the Cajun asserted, pulling sparking electronic guts out of the prep station’s belly. “An' all them stakes 'gainst me in th' bettin' pool could sure generate enough credits t' buy a lot of will, I be guessin'.”
“Pure malicious speculation,” the chemist deflected.
Del held up a handful of partially melted circuts. “Come clean, Daffodil.”
Gollub crossed her arms and stubbornly looked in the other direction. “I admit nothing.”
“Except for tinkering with this unit,” Ruth accused as the diagnostic controls spit out streams of gibberish.
“Tinkering-schminkering,” Gollub protested. “I was just testing the power settings.”
“Wit' a laser wrench,” Del supplied accusingly.
“Come on guys,” the chemist pleaded. “Just fix it. The contest is tomorrow…. And… also… it’s… it’s not just this unit now… It’s the whole galley.”
“Sweet Mary…” the engineer groaned.
Ruth frowned at the nonsensical readout she was getting. “Is it a mechanical problem or have you screwed up the AI too?”
“If I could tell that, don’t you think I would have called one of you down here to yell at me rather than both?” Gollub retorted, exasperated.
DelMonde and Valley eyed each other and the task before them sourly.
“She has a point,” Ruth conceded.
“It on th' top o' her dunce cap,” Del agreed.
“Less recrimination, more rescuing,” the chemist requested, her voice starting to take on a more hysterical than usual edge. “The shift change is in twenty minutes. I’m dead if anybody finds out I somehow broke the whole galley.”
“You owe me,” her friends informed her in unison.
“This I know.” Gollub impatiently turned them in the direction of the service access hatch. “Go fix. Go! Go!”
The worst thing was that he knew she still wanted him. Del had to sigh at the thought. He'd read this pathetic chapter of the Book of Love in the deluded hearts of too many mortals. It was the standard fantasy -- the jilted lover convinced that the partner who had abandoned him still secretly longed for him.
The engineer frowned as he loosened the bolts holding a reactor assembly in place. Unlike every unlucky fool who'd ever lied to himself in this way, Del had the means to confirm his suspicions. His extra-sensory senses only had to put the tip of a psychic toe out into the emotion field surrounding the woman on the opposite side of the service hutch to feel her hunger.
As many fancy mental control tricks as Ruth had in her bag, her desire for him was something that she could not completely hide or suppress at this range. It seemed like an instinctive reaction. Somewhere inside her there was a primal huntress who could not stop herself from responding with possessive lust when she sighted a prime bundle of male flesh and synapses. Human blood and a Vulcan husband couldn't stop eons of matriarchal Antari pride from arguing that there was no reason why he should not serve her pleasure.
Del paused and twisted his mouth to one side. Kind of demeaning when a person thought of the impulse in those terms.... but God help him, it still managed to turn him on.
A strangled noise of frustration erupted from the other side of the tiny service compartment.
"Fuck you!" the science officer screeched angrily without turning around from the spot where she knelt to access a control terminal.
"Fuck you, too, darlin'," Del replied with equal heat. He was laying on his side on the dusty flooring of the tiny compartment facing away from her.
The Antari turned and thrust a finger in his direction. "One word, Del -- Shield!"
He rolled over onto his elbows and met her gaze defiantly. "I not ashamed o' what I t'inkin'. Are you?"
"Fuck you," she spat, turning back to her work.
"Fuck you more," he growled back.
After a moment, he could hear her heave an exasperated sigh. "I promised Spock that we'd stop doing this."
"Fixin' the nutrient delivery system?" Del asked facetiously. "I t'ink the crew gonna object if we quit now."
"No." Pressing her mouth into a hard line, she turned to him. "We need to stop randomly yelling 'Fuck you' at each other."
"Why?" the engineer retorted insolently. "You 'fraid someone gonna interpret it as a plea?"
Valley snorted contemptuously. "From you maybe."
"Yeah," he sneered back. "'Cause you such a satisfied married lady."
"I am, you know," she replied, lifting her chin defiantly.
"Yeah, sure," the engineer replied. "Just lookin' at him, I can tell he know how to cater to your every nasty li'l desire..."
"Looks can be deceiving," she countered, adding a sultry chuckle to support her assertion.
"Looks can," he granted with a shrug. "But lust speaks volumes, cher."
"You don't know what you're talking about," she dismissed angrily.
"Oh, right," he replied heatedly. "I never know what I talkin' 'bout when I talk to you, non? You always felt like you so damn much smarter'an me. If I had any brains, I s'pose I should be happy you finally found someone worthy o' your intellect."
"That is part of the attraction," she confessed cruelly.
"Yeah, I bet you two have a helluva time in bed workin' crossword puzzles an' debatin' ethical quandaries."
Ruth crossed her arms. "You seem to have all your one-liners worked out. Spent some time practicing this conversation?"
He narrowed his eyes. "I not waste much thought on you no more."
"Good," she snapped, turning her back on him.
Del felt his lip curling into a snarl. His heart was racing and his breath -- like hers -- was coming short and fast. He turned back to his work and tried to regain control of himself. There was, as Ruth frequently complained, something wrong with the flow of tel/empathy between them. Whenever they were together -- even under the best of circumstances -- the energy feed inevitably began to jitter and whine like a reactor coil with a plasma stream that was half a point off spec. They always ended up exploding at each other... or making love. The more profound mind/body connection available during sex could smooth out the jagged edge of their imperfectly matched energy... except when it didn't. There had been times they'd fought the entire time they clung to each other.
Del ground his teeth at the pang of the memory as well as the pain of the serrated stream of emotions pouring from the other side of the tiny service compartment. The feed from her jangling psyche was like a millions tiny ants marching and biting just below his skin. It galled him that he was now stuck in a situation where he had to endure the agony of being near her while forever being barred from the ecstasy of joining with her.
"Why the hell you not tell me 'bout him?" he lashed out... even though, as a telempath, he'd had ample clues that she had been head over heels for this damned Vulcan for a long time and had always intended to move heaven and the galaxy to get him if and when the chance presented itself.
"I don't know," Valley replied sharply, facing away from him as if that could hide her guilt. "Not much time for conversation on Naios."
"Yeah." The memory was a bitter taste in his mouth now. "Too bad there not no way fo' people on one starship t' communicate wit' another."
She turned, her large purple eyes pleading. "It didn't feel like something I could put in a subspace message."
"Yeah," he spat back. "Findin' out in person was soooooo much less painful."
"Why didn't you call me and tell me you were transferring?" she countered accusingly.
He let his reply drip with venom. "I wanted to surprise you."
"You did," she replied coldly.
"I know."
They glared at each other silently, the emotional energy between them buzzing like a swarm of maddened bees.
What Del really wanted to do was to rip off that tight-fitting little blue uniform and throw her on her back under him. What he had to content himself with was snarling, "You know what I t'ink?"
"I don't think I want to know," she sniffed.
"I t'ink you never told me 'bout your Mr. Vulcan 'cause you not want me to stay away."
"You're being ridiculous," she scoffed.
"Am I?" he retorted. "I t'ink that somewhere in that greedy li'l Antari Moon Princess heart o' yours, you holdin' on to th' idea that somehow you' gonna be able to manage t' have us both."
"It's Moon Priestess!" she exploded. "Not princess! And you know I hate that title to begin with!"
"An' you mistakin' me fo' someone who gives a shit," he replied coldly.
She glared at him for a moment, her face contorting with rage and a host of other emotions she was less comfortable with revealing before turning away. "I've changed my mind," she snapped as she noisily repacked her diagnostic kit.
"'Bout what?"
"Screw what I promised," she replied hotly as she snapped the kit shut. "I think we should go on randomly shouting 'Fuck you' at each other as long as we want to."
"Fine by me, darlin'," the engineer agreed cruelly as she headed for the escape hatch.
"Fuck you!" she turned and screamed for good measure before slamming the door shut.
"I wish you never had!" he shouted after her.
As the last echoes of their angry words died in the tiny chamber, the Cajun let his head rest on his forearms and let the exhausted tears of frustration flow. "Sweet Jesus, I wish you never had."
Rolling in the Deep by Adele
Go Your Own Way by Fleetwood Mac
Stronger by Kelly Clarkson