Archive of Our Own ^beta

“This is really a fantastic vintage, Mr. Boimler, thank you for bringing it over.”

“Eh well, when you grow up in wine country you pick stuff up,” Boimler said with his usual false modesty, clearly beaming with pride inside. “Everyone says French and Ferengi wines are the best, but personally I’m still partial to what’s home-grown in the Central Valley.”

It was the end of a Sunday evening dinner in the Freeman household, three days into a weeklong R&R on good old planet Earth, and for once everything seemed to be smooth sailing in Beckett Mariner’s life. She’d recently pulled off a very badass hostage rescue during a second-contact-turned-sabotage, had thus earned herself a promotion to junior lieutenant, and despite having been out late drinking with Tendi and Rutherford last night to celebrate, neither she nor Brad were too hung over when her mother had invited them over for dinner. Her parents (for once) seemed pleased with her life choices, and as loathe as she was to admit it, she had to agree with them. She’d never been happier than she was right now.

Of course, given the little weight in her jacket pocket, she could be sure she was about to throw a wrench into all those works—but she had a pretty good feeling that the purple-haired dork next to her wouldn’t be opposed to helping her clean up the resulting chaos.

“Well, either way, we’ll have to save the bottle,” her father declared. “And thank you both for coming over tonight, we know it was last-minute.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Freeman; this turned into a really nice night,” Boimler said, glancing over at his girlfriend and squeezing her hand under the table. Things had been better between her and her parents lately, but the out-of-the-blue invitation had still been stressful for her; he’d even asked her if she wanted him to find an excuse to turn them down (which was a lot coming from him, given his burning desire to impress her parents), but Mariner had decided against it. For reasons she still hadn’t shared with him, she wanted to end this R&R on the best possible terms with her folks. She knew they liked Bradward—liked him a lot, in fact—but her parents had a bad habit of questioning her choices and assuming that she was rushing into things half-cocked, even if it was a decision they would ordinarily have agreed with.

“Yeah, and thanks for dinner, Mom. I know everyone says they can’t taste the difference, but non-replicated food really is better,” Mariner added. Her mother gave her a suspicious but not necessarily displeased look.

“Beckett, are you buttering me up for something?”

She put on a poker face. “What, I can’t compliment my own mother’s cooking without it being a part of a scheme? You really don’t trust me at all, do you?”

“Carol, she has a point,” the admiral chided, and his wife snorted, picking up her plate.

“I didn’t say it was for a bad reason. But I know that tone of voice, Zo, she’s about to do something that’s going to put a lot of paperwork on my desk. Am I wrong, Beckett?” Mariner just grinned. “Yeah, s’what I thought. Just give me until the end of R&R at least.”

“Ha, no promises Mom.”

The older woman gave her another searching look, but Mariner was thankfully saved by Boimler’s timely intervention. “Please, Captain, you did the cooking, let us do the dishes,” he said, standing and beginning to pick up his and Mariner’s plates.

“Absolutely not; you’re our guest, Mr. Boimler, and the sonic dishwasher is broken–”

“I insist,” he said, waving off her other objections as he took the rest of the plates. Beside the captain, Mariner’s father shook his head as he watched, impressed.

“Polite, does the dishes, bring us free alcohol. I like this one, Beckett, keep him around.”

Her daughter rolled her eyes. “I plan to, Dad, thanks.”

The two younger officers collected the dishes and brought them into the kitchen, where they started washing up. “I’d say you’re laying it on pretty thick,” Mariner said, handing him a freshly-cleaned plate, “but then again you’re always like this.”

Boimler rolled his eyes good-naturedly and began to dry it. “So I want my girlfriend’s parents to like me, sue me.”

“Dude we’ve been dating for two years now, you can loosen up around them a little.”

He gave her an amused look. “I just shared a whole bottle of wine with them, how much more ‘loosened up’ around an admiral and captain do you want me to get?” Mariner had to grant that. “By the way,” he added, “are you really going to do something to bother the Captain?”

“I’m her daughter, it’s my job to bother her,” Mariner said dismissively.

“Beckett–”

“Fine, fine. I was just teasing her, Brad, calm down.” He gave her a dubious look, and she nudged him, deciding a distraction was in order. “Hey, you remember the first time I brought you over for dinner?”

He snorted. “I think I kept calling your dad ‘Mr. Admiral’ by accident.”

“And you said ‘Aye, Captain,’ when my mom asked you to pass the butter.”

He winced, but was still smiling as he dried the next pan. “Thanks, Beckett, I’d almost repressed that memory. That’ll keep me up for a few nights at least…”

“Yeah?” Mariner paused as she saw out of the corner of her eye as her mother walked into the kitchen, muttering to herself about something work-related. She tilted her head closer with a whisper as she subtly slipped her hand into his back pocket: “Good.”

His back stiffened and his whole face went red; Mariner bit back a laugh until her mother left the room and he relaxed an inch, at which point she began to snicker under her breath. He turned to face her with a grin as he finished the pan and planted his fist on his hip, the rag still in hand. “You know, you’d think that after two years torturing me like that would get old for you.”

“You’d think after two years you’d stop liking it,” she shot back with a smirk and the dangerous glint in her eye that meant she was more than ready to play this game of chicken, the fact that they were in her parents’ kitchen be damned.

But of course, he wouldn’t be the Bradward Boimler she knew and loved if he weren’t insufferably responsible. “Yeah, no,” he drawled, pointing a lightly scolding finger at her. “We’re not doing that in my captain's house, have a little restraint please.”

“Mm, careful. Next time I’ll bite that finger,” she warned as she sauntered away to hang up the saucepan, and was rewarded for this last volley by an even deeper blush on his face.

He had no time to respond, however, as a deep voice called: “By the way, Mr. Boimler–” The younger man jumped as his girlfriend’s father entered the kitchen, smacking his head on the bottom of the open cupboard door. “Oh! Sorry, son, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Ooh,” Boimler winced; the pain was apparently a good distraction from the flirtation, as the flush had mostly faded by the time he turned around. “It’s fine, sir. Uh, what can I help you with?” Mariner bit back a smirk at the way he was both trying to both stand at-attention while also looking casual.

“Oh, just wanted a quick talk,” her father said vaguely. “I saw you submitted an application for the six-month internship position on the Enterprise."

“Oh, um, yes sir,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, but Mariner could tell he was proud. “I’ve got the credentials, and my service record is basically perfect—I know it’s a long shot but I thought, what’s the harm in trying?”

The older man nodded. “What indeed…”

“Sir?”

Mr. Freeman opened his mouth to answer and then, much to Mariner’s confusion, glanced briefly at his daughter before apparently changing his mind. “Son, why don’t you and I have a little chat in private?”

Boimler blinked and then straightened up. “Oh, um, of course, sir!” He was clearly trying very hard not to look too eager at the prospect of discussing his application with an admiral, and as he and her father left the room, Mariner gave him an encouraging thumbs up. Her boyfriend grinned nervously back in response.

Mariner finished up the rest of the dishes on her own and then headed back into the dining room, where her mother had opened up her Padd and was checking emails. “Jeez, Mom, do you ever stop working?” she asked, sitting down next to her. “You’re as bad as Bradward, honestly.”

“Just checking to make sure Ransom hasn’t set the ship on fire,” the captain said dryly, setting the Padd down and then looking around with a frown. “Where is Mr. Boimler anyhow?”

“Dad’s talking to him about his Enterprise application.”

“Oh.” To Mariner’s surprise, her mother’s face fell. “I, uh, wasn’t aware he’d told you about that.”

“What, about applying for the internship? ‘Course he did, I was the one who told him to go for it in the first place.”

Her mother hesitated. “Beckett…are you sure that was the best idea?”

“What, you mean because of the whole Titan thing? C’mon, Mom, that was years ago, we’re past that. And besides he’d only be away for a couple months and then he’d be coming back to the Cerritos. I’m not scared of him leaving for good or anything.” She thought about telling her mother about her other plans for this R&R, but decided against it; she wanted Brad to be the first to know.

“Yes, but…” The captain’s gaze seemed to search her daughter’s face for a moment, as if trying to read something in the younger woman’s expression, before her eyes widened as she appeared to realize something and quickly looked away. “Nevermind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Mariner frowned. “What does that–?”

She was cut off by the sound of the door opening and hurried footsteps walking back down the hall; a moment later Boimler appeared in the living room, and both Mariner and her mother rose to their feet, startled. His face was red and his eyes were watering; to Mariner’s absolute shock, she realized he was in tears. “I-I need to go,” he said rapidly upon seeing them, grabbing his jacket. “Beckett, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Brad–?”

“And I’m sorry, Captain– dinner was great, really–”

“Mr. Boimler–”

“I’m sorry–” He turned as Mariner’s father appeared out of the hallway behind him, looking up at the admiral and adding hoarsely: “Thank you, sir. I… I appreciate the help.”

With that he turned on his heels and, without bothering so much as to look back at his girlfriend or her family, walked out the front door into the fading San Francisco evening. It slammed shut behind him a moment later.

The family stood in shock for a moment, before Mariner rounded on her father. “What the hell did you say to him?!”

“It’s not my place to say,” he answered wearily.

“What do you mean, not your place?! What, you think Brad’s not good enough for the Enterprise? He’s the best damn worker on our whole ship, nobody deserves it more than him!”

“Nobody is questioning Mr. Boimler’s work ethic,” her mother interjected firmly. “Your father just had a talk with him about his future, that’s all.” Mariner’s brows pinched as she looked between the two of them suspiciously.

“Okay, what is going on?! What do you guys have against Brad, I thought you liked him!”

“Of course we like him!” her father insisted. “Beckett, I promise you, nothing Mr. Boimler and I discussed has anything to do with your relationship; I was just trying to give him some career advice.”

“And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

“It’s not my place to say.”

“Wh–”

“Beckett, if Mr. Boimler wanted to tell you, he would already have told you!” her mother said sharply. “Now leave it alone!”

There was a ringing silence in the living room for a moment before Mariner, halfway to angry tears herself, stalked over to the coat hooks. “Beckett!”

“Oh yeah like I’m just going to let this go after you say something like that!”

“Beckett, wait–”

But she ignored her parents’ calls and ran out the door herself, scanning the street. Boimler had already vanished, but Mariner stormed off down the sidewalk anyway, ready to comfort her boyfriend and unleash all nine rings of hell on her parents when she got back for whatever they’d done to him.

There was no question in her mind about whether she’d be able to find him. Of course she would. She knew him better than anyone.

In the end, it only took Mariner about fifteen minutes to locate where Boimler had gone. Although she’d never lived in her parents’ house herself, she had a pretty good idea of the neighborhood, and she knew there was an Irish pub on a busier street a few blocks away. Despite not having a drop of Irish blood in him Boimler liked the music, and she figured he would appreciate the dimly-lit atmosphere—a perfect place to stew quietly alone without getting awkward questions.

When she reached the bar (like most Irish pubs it was a bit labyrinthian inside, with different rooms and nooks perfect for crying lieutenants to hide in) she asked a waitress if a man with purple hair had recently come in. “Oh, that guy?” the young woman asked, surprised. “He’s back there–” she waved vaguely to a shadowy corner further away from the speakers and bartop, “–Ordered a prune juice spritzer. Weirdest cocktail I’ve ever heard of. Is purple like his favorite color or something?”

“Uh– no, the prune juice is a Starfleet thing– listen, I’m just going to go find him, okay?” She left the curious waitress behind before she could ask any more prying questions and made her way through the pub, already alarmed. Brad didn’t drink when he was sad, he got pissy with people and locked himself in closets to cry. If he was drowning his woes, then she could only assume he’d entered a deep fuck the consequences depression-spiral.

Like the waitress had said she found him in the back corner, hunched over an already half-drunk spritzer and looking absolutely miserable. When he noticed her he let out a low moan. “Dammit, how did you find me so fast?”

“C’mon, man, I’m your best friend, I know you.” She sat down next to him in the booth but he looked away. “Look, whatever my dad said to you, it was bullshit, okay?” He didn’t respond. “You more than deserve that internship, my dad had no right– listen, my parents are hard on everyone, let’s just fuck off and go back to the–”

“Beckett there’s something I haven’t told you.”

She shut up, surprised. Brad was staring down into his drink with more than just unhappiness—for the first time, she realized he looked guilty. “I’ve been keeping something from you, I mean really from everyone, for a while. At least I thought I was, I…” He huffed angrily. “I was so stupid. I really thought a bottle of hair dye would sell it!”

“Okay? What does that mean?” He hesitated and she set a hand on his arm. “Hey. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out, alright? I’ve always got your back, you know that.”

He still wasn’t looking at her, but her hand seemed to comfort him at least a little, because he sighed, shoulders slumping. “Your dad intercepted my transfer application to the Enterprise-F.  He said he did me a favor and deleted it from the system before the relevant admiral had a chance to see it.”

“What?!” Mariner demanded loudly, and he cringed at the volume of her voice. “The fuck does he think– I’m gonna kill him, I sw–” She made to stand up but Brad quickly turned and caught her arm:

“No– Beckett, he was protecting me! I-I got cocky, I thought– I thought I’d actually managed to fool everyone and maybe I stood a shot of–”

“Brad, what the hell are you talking about?!”

“I’m an Augment, Beckett.”

Her face fell. He winced again and dropped his hand as her eyes roamed over his face, his hair, his body and back up to his face. Mariner stared at him for a long moment and then, against every better judgment, she laughed—a very awkward, nervous laugh, but his face fell nonetheless.

“What? No,” she snickered, as a little voice in the back of her head desperately screamed at her to shut up. “You’re an Augment? But–”

“It’s not funny!” he snapped, and there were tears brimming in his eyes again, and she wanted to smack herself for being so insensitive.

“Sorry– I’m not–” She stifled the nervous giggles. “Sorry.” He still looked angry and hurt, and she forced herself to have a much more sober tone: “Of course it’s not funny, I didn’t mean to laugh, I just– you caught me off-guard and sometimes I laugh when I’m nervous and–” He glanced at her briefly and then looked away again, apparently somewhat mollified by this explanation. “Brad, I’m really sorry,” she insisted.

“...It’s okay. I know it’s a bit of a shock.”

“I just– I don’t understand,” she said, trying not to make it sound like she was doubting him. “I mean, you’re allergic to sand.”

“My health problems are the result of a bad gene resequencing,” he explained tiredly. “My parents got conned by a crappy doctor when they were trying to have me, and instead of a kid with super-smarts and perfect physique they got, well, me. But it still counts as augmentation even if it was a botched job.”

She nodded one too many times, trying to process all this while still showing she was listening to him. “So, uh, does that mean your hair–”

“–Really is this color, yeah. I just pretend to dye it to throw people off the scent. I thought it was working. But I guess your parents have suspected me for a while now; all your dad did was ask me off the record if it was true. And he said they’re not the only ones, apparently there’ve been rumors about me since the Academy.”

Mariner sat back in the booth, stunned. Augment. Despite her shock, it made a weird amount of sense; she’d always thought it was odd that even someone as pedantic as Boimler would dye his eyebrows (among other things), and then the way that he usually refused to step a toe out of line, as if he was scared of being caught and grilled for answers over any tiny infraction…  “I thought Augments couldn’t serve in Starfleet.”

“We can’t, officially. I lied on my application. Which is a felony,” he admitted, “or it would be if anyone could prove it, anyway.”

“But you said my dad told you people have already guessed–”

“Yeah well, turns out there’s an unspoken don’t ask, don’t tell policy about this stuff. Your dad says even some of the brass don’t personally care about augments serving in the fleet, which makes sense; I mean, Starfleet comes across crazier stuff than me every day, right? But they can still get in a lot of trouble for breaking the law and nobody wants to take the risk of openly defying the Federation. Apparently my superiors were just turning a blind eye this whole time.” He gave a bitter chuckle. “And of course, if someone who does care found out an Augment was serving on the Enterprise, well…”

“I still can’t believe he did that to you,” Mariner growled. “Fuck him and fuck the rest of the admiralship, resubmit your applic–”

“Beckett, didn’t you hear me? Your dad was protecting me, he just saved my career.”

“Protecting you how, by letting bigotry happen on his watch–?!”

“He told me there’s a major background check run on everyone who applies to work on the Enterprise,” he interrupted guiltily. “I-I didn’t know. If my application had reached the admiral in charge of that division, someone on the evaluation team would have figured out what I am and been forced to alert the government; my parents could go to jail and my career would be over. I’d never serve in Starfleet again.”

Oh. Well, now she definitely owed her father an apology. “But what about Dr. Bash–”

“Yeah except I’m not Julian Bashir, am I? I’m not a galaxy-famous doctor on fucking Deep Space Nine, Beckett, I’m a lieutenant on a Cali-class ship and the most powerful allies I’ve got are your parents. It’s just not enough.”

There was a long silence between them, broken only by the chatter and music of the rest of the bar. Mariner was just struggling to come up with the right thing to say when he muttered: “If you’re mad just say it.”

“What?”

“I get it. I lied to you and kept a major secret from you. And if we stay together long-term this is going to end up affecting you too. I get it if you’re upset.”

On reflection, yeah, she realized, she was a little pissed at him for keeping something like this from her—but this was not the time to deal with those feelings. “I’ll be mad at you later when you’re not pouring your heart out to me in a bar,” she answered. “But for real, Brad, why didn’t you tell me? You know I wouldn’t have ratted you out; hell, Dr. Bashir even saved my life a couple times, I’ve got nothing against Augments.”

“Because most of the time I try not to think about it,” he confessed. “The more I forget about it the less likely I am to slip up. I’m pretty sure Dr. T’Ana knows, but doctor-patient confidentiality means she can’t tell–”

“I don’t care about Dr. T’Ana, Boims, I want to know why you didn't think you could trust me. I’m your best friend and your girlfriend, why didn’t you want me to know?”

“Because it’s embarrassing! I’m not even the cool kind of Augment who’s a genius or super-strong or something, I’m just a screwed-up lab experiment with slightly enhanced intelligence and weird hair.” Mariner gave him a look, and he sighed. “And…honestly, Beckett, I just didn’t want you or anyone else looking at me differently.”

“I’m not going to look at you diff–”

“Come on, of course you are. And I don’t blame you, this… it’s big. I’ve spent my whole life pretending to myself that it’s not and here I am.” The fight was draining out of him and he was turning depressed again. “To me this is just one, tiny part of my life. But if people learned about it, they’d treat it like it’s the only thing about me that matters.”

Well hell if she couldn’t understand how that felt. “Brad, I wouldn’t do that to you,” she insisted. He looked up at her, and after a moment his face softened and he nodded.

“Fine. Maybe you wouldn’t.” He looked out at the rest of the bar, watching the other patrons without really seeing them. “But unfortunately the rest of the world doesn’t share your opinion. I mean you know me, Beckett, I’m ambitious and I like things being efficient and making sure people follow the rules…”

“Yeah but that’s all just…” she trailed off as she suddenly doubted the very words in her mouth. He gave her a knowing nod, and she instantly felt like a fucking traitor. “Oh. Oh, shit, Brad, I didn’t– I’m sorry–”

“That’s what I mean. And you’re my girlfriend, you’re already primed to trust me. Not everyone is.” He looked dourly down into his drink. “Sometimes even I wonder if that’s all part of the personality changes everyone talks about Augments having, but honestly it doesn’t matter, people would assume anyway. I mean can you really see it going over well if people knew that the guy who talks about making captain all the time was in the same category as Khan Noonien Singh?” 

She couldn’t argue with that. “So…then what are you going to do now?”

Brad shrugged despondently. “Your dad thinks if I keep my head down and work hard that I could still make captain on a Cali-class or Wyoming-class ship someday. He said he’d fix the paperwork for me if I can get that far before he retires. But anything higher would be out of his division and...” His eyes had begun watering again.

“Brad–”

“And it’s just so unfair. I’ve worked so hard for this, Beckett, I deserve that internship! But because my parents made a stupid choice none of that matters!” He scrubbed his eyes angrily with the back of his hand. “Serving on the Enterprise has been my dream since I was a kid, and now it’s never going to happen! Hell, I never even had a chance.”

After that he fell silent, apparently not trusting himself to speak. Mariner, for her part, had no idea what to say either, so she didn’t try. Instead she just reached out, took his hand and squeezed it. After a moment, Boimler gave it a weak squeeze in response, and she pulled him into a hug as he broke down.

After an hour or so of commiserating over too many prune spritzers, Boimler was starting to feel a little better, so Mariner suggested they go back to her parents’ place. “Not the ship?” he said in surprise as they left. “I thought you were mad at them.”

“I am still a little mad at them,” she grumbled. “My parents are shit communicators and then blame me for making the wrong assumptions, it’s really annoying.” When he politely didn’t respond she rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know, the apple doesn’t fall far. But that’s not the point; you got some bad news, you deserve some privacy to deal with it.”

He looked touched at the thoughtfulness of this gesture. “Thanks, Beckett. I…I think I could use that.”

They walked the rest of the way home in mutual pensive silence, which was rare for them, but Mariner suspected they both had a lot on their mind. When they came in the front door of the townhouse they could both hear voices coming from the dining room. The voices paused as the door closed, but neither the captain nor admiral came out to see them. “Looks like they’re giving us some space,” Mariner whispered. Boimler nodded and followed her up the stairs to the second floor.

Outside the guest room door she suddenly stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, surprising him. “Beckett?” 

“Look, I’m not saying what your parents did was okay or that you should be glad they did it or anything,” she said awkwardly. “But—the Bradward Boimler I know might not exist if they hadn’t. I love you, Boims, exactly the way you are. And I can’t let tonight end without you knowing that for absolute sure.” Her dark eyes peered into his, as if trying to make sure he could read her sincerity in them even if he couldn’t trust it in her words.

“Thanks. That’s…that’s honestly a relief to hear,” he exhaled, pulling her into a hug. They stood like that for a few moments until he pulled back, rubbing his head. “I’m pretty tired, I think I should get some sleep…”

“You do that; I’m going to talk to my parents for a bit.”

He gave her a look. “Don’t chew them out, Beckett.”

“I’m not going to–”

“I mean it; your dad really saved my ass today and your mom’s been breaking the law for me for years without me even knowing it. I owe them both a lot.”

“Brad,” she said seriously, “I’m not going to yell at them, I’m going to thank them.” He looked surprised and then relaxed.

“Okay. Thanks” He leaned forward and kissed her. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“Yeah. You too.” She watched as he went into the guest room and closed the door, and then stood in the silence of the hallway for a long moment, working up the courage to do what she was about to do.

The thing in her pocket felt particularly heavy as she walked back down the stairs and found her parents sitting at the dining room table, talking again in quiet but urgent tones. They stopped when they saw her in the doorway. “Beckett,” her father said, as he rose to his feet, “I know you’re upset with me, but–”

To his surprise, his daughter hugged him. “Thanks, Dad. I’m sorry I got mad, I didn’t know.”

“I take it he told you, then,” her mother observed.

Mariner nodded as she pulled back. “Yeah. He did. So…thanks, Dad, for saying you’ll help him make captain someday. And Mom, thanks for covering for him. I know you’re both taking a huge risk.”

Her father nodded gravely. “Of course. And I want you to know, I’m not just doing this because he’s your boyfriend; I’d do this for any young officer with his potential.”

“I know.” She took a deep breath. “But Dad, this isn’t going to last forever, we both know that. What if after you retire someone gets your chair who isn’t as open-minded? Getting made captain and then having that taken away from him—that would crush Brad, we all know it would.”

“We’ve thought about that,” her father said, glancing at his wife. “But there’s not much we can do about the future, Beckett.”

“Mr. Boimler will just have to deal with that day when and if it comes,” her mother agreed.

Mariner nodded pensively, she’d been expecting that. “Yeah, well…I’m going to make sure he’s not in this alone.” At their curiosity she continued: “You guys have always said I should focus more on my career. Well, now I have a reason.”

She reached into her pocket. When she set the small box down on the table and opened the lid, her parents’ eyes widened. The gold band gleamed in the kitchen light, and they looked up at her, shocked.

Their daughter looked back, eyes blazing with determination. “I promised Brad I’d get him in a captain’s chair someday,” she vowed, “and I’ll be damned if I let anyone take that away from him. Mom, Dad—tell me what I need to do to become an admiral.”