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When Ashton found out that they were sending a new officer to replace him as head of security, his first thought was fuck, finally. He'd never wanted the damn position in the first place, but there wasn't anybody else nearly qualified enough on the entirety of Deep Space 6, and Starfleet didn't seem to care enough about this place anyway to consider why having a twice-court-martialed and twice-demoted lieutenant as their head of anything was a terrible idea. Ashton had said to Milo on multiple occasions that Deep Space 6 was where officers that had fucked up went to rot.
The commander in charge of the station, an old human named Bertrand Bell, was basically the poster child for the kind of ragtag backwater outpost this was. He was long past the age that he should've been to hold an active position in a spot like this—usually, by the time Starfleet officers were as grey as him (Andorians and other naturally white-haired folks excused, of course) they'd been promoted to admiral or retired entirely. The fact that Commander Bell was still a commander and not even a captain had led to Ashton wondering many times if that cheery old man had somehow fucked up and gotten demoted, too, or if he'd just been stuck here out of his stubborn refusal to accept an admiralship and they didn't want to put someone with one foot in the grave in charge of a starship.
But, when it came to Ashton's new demotion (his third, if anyone was counting), he'd initially been delighted. Deep Space 6 wasn't awful, once you got used to it, and he looked forward to spending more time hanging out at the bar with that odd El-Aurian woman, Fearne, instead of being holed up in the security office doing whatever dumb paperwork Bell had sent him. And then he got his hands on the man's file, and, well...
Ashton tossed the open PADD onto the small bar table, and it clattered loudly, causing the seated Milo to nearly jump out of their skin. "Hey, Ashton," they said, with a casualness that spoke to their ongoing friendship. "The hell's this?" They tapped the PADD with one finger.
"My replacement," Ashton hissed. They dragged out a chair, causing it to scrape loudly across the floor. "He's a Bajoran, getting transferred here along with a new science officer, some—Andorian guy, I don't know, I didn't care about his file. But, look there." They reached over and pointed at a line of text on the PADD. "Before this? Mr Ashari here was a junior-grade lieutenant. They promoted him twice just to give him seniority over me. That's bullshit, Milo, complete bullshit. He doesn't have the qualifications to be head of security here, not naturally, and he doesn't have the experience, either. What the hell is Starfleet command thinking?"
Milo regarded Ashton curiously over the edge of their glasses, then pushed them further up their nose. "Ash," they started, "I thought you hated being head of security?"
"I do," Ashton insisted. "The job fucking sucks, especially around here where nothing ever happens and when it does happen I just have to send somebody else to deal with it. But I suck it up and I do it, right? Because I have the qualifications, I have the experience, and if I hadn't gotten into shit that one... two times, I'd be the same fucking rank as Bell! So I'm allowed to be upset that they're sending a greenie to replace me and just expect me to be fine with it!"
Milo took the PADD in their hands and studied the file for a long moment. "Well," they said with a sigh, "maybe he doesn't have, y'know, as many years serving as a security officer as you do, but he at least seems... skilled, and God knows we could use some fresh blood around here, Ashton. You and I know better than anyone else that you can't judge someone by their Starfleet record alone, so d'you think you could at least wait to meet the guy before you decide that you hate him?"
"I don't hate him," Ashton replied firmly. "I kind of feel bad for him, honestly. The regulars around here are going to whoop his ass, but I'm hoping that'll send him running back to Starfleet command with his tail between his legs asking for another transfer. I just don't want to have to babysit some shiny-eyed Bajoran for a month or two while he struggles to handle the work, y'know?" He groaned, feeling a headache coming on, and quickly caught the attention of Fearne at the bar. She waved at him, and he gestured for her to come over. "I need a drink."
"I'm just saying that maybe this guy is actually pretty good, and he can handle it, and you'll be glad to have a load off your shoulders," Milo continued, leaning across the table as Fearne made her way towards them. "And if that happens, then Ashari's going to need your support. You know a few good words from someone the people already trust go a long way around here. If he's good, you wouldn't want him to get scared off, now, would you?"
Ashton opened their mouth to respond, but it was at that moment that Fearne arrived at their table.
"The usual for you two?" the bartender asked, a PADD in her hands and a rosy bow in her green hair. As an El-Aurian, she likely already knew what kind of a mood Ashton was in, and what their answer would be, but she tended to ask anyway. Ashton appreciated it; he had a reflexive hatred of feeling like his mind was being messed with, from growing up with Orion pirates as parents.
Ashton sighed, running a hand through their purple undercut, instinctively shying away from the old, web-like scar across the side of their head. "Do you have anything stronger?" they asked. "Not that Klingon firewine isn't strong as hell, but I'm in the mood to pass out today. Maybe some, I dunno, Romulan ale?"
Fearne winked at him. "I can do that," she assured him. "But only for you, Lieutenant. You know I'm not really supposed to have that stuff, but—"
Ashton waved a hand dismissively. "I'm head of security, at least until the new guy arrives. I say it's fucking fine. I won't report it, you have my word." They looked at Milo. "You?"
"Uh, no, no, I'm good with just a beer," Milo said. "Human beer. Please. Thanks, Fearne."
"A Romulan ale and a human beer," Fearne repeated, noting it down on her PADD. "No food for either of you?"
"Oh, fuck, yeah, I could really go for a plate of your famous nachos, actually," Ashton answered with a groan. "I'll tip you extra latinum to add some of those peppers you got in yesterday from Betazed."
Fearne turned her gaze on Milo.
"I'll just steal from them," Milo responded, gesturing vaguely at Ashton.
Fearne grinned. "I'll be back in a minute, lieutenants!"
"You're a lifesaver, Fearne," Ashton said, and sunk back into their seat.
As soon as she was gone, Milo looked back at Ashton. "Give the guy a chance, at least?" they said, as if their conversation had never been interrupted.
Ashton sighed. "Alright. Fine. I'll give the lieutenant commander a chance. But I'm not going to be happy about it."
"I'm not asking you to." Milo shrugged. "Who knows, you might even end up liking him."
Ashton shuddered. "Yeah, right," he snorted. "A hoity-toity Bajoran would never give two shits about me."
Milo ran a hand over their face. "Is that what this is about? You're expecting him to be a dick to you because you're an Orion?" he questioned. "You know what's happened on Bajor. I'd say this guy is the least likely to give you shit over where your parents are from."
"I'm not going to be his friend," Ashton said firmly. "I'll give him a week, and then he's on his own. Sink or swim. But, fine, I won't let him drown immediately. Since you asked so nicely."
"You're not going to regret it," Milo assured him.
"Well, it's going to be your problem when I do."
Orym let out a deep breath and adjusted the collar of his uniform for the third time in the last fifteen minutes. He glanced at the Andorian sitting next to him, whose mood seemed completely contrary to Orym's by the way he was leaning back in his seat and strumming gently at the stringed instrument in his hands. But Orym knew that Dorian was just as nervous about this transfer as he was.
"Dorian," Orym said, quietly, and Dorian blinked at him. "Does my hair look okay?" He gestured to his head.
"You look like a model Starfleet officer," Dorian assured him, with a gentle smile. "A real, proper lieutenant commander."
Orym put his head in his hands. "I still don't know why they gave me that title," he groaned. "I didn't earn it. I feel like I've cheated, somehow, and I hate it."
"I think you're lucky," Dorian told him, "but I apologize, I don't envy you, either." He leaned over and nudged Orym's shoulder with his own. "You'll do great. You've been deserving a promotion for ages now, and you're exactly what they need on Deep Space 6. Besides, it's not a difficult assignment, I'm sure you won't run into any trouble."
"Unless the old security chief is mad at me for taking his job," Orym mumbled into his hands. "I've read his file. He's been court-martialed twice!" He kept his voice low; the transport was scarcely occupied, but there were still other passengers, and he didn't want to disturb any of them.
"So he's not going to risk a third one by making a fuss about you," Dorian pointed out. "Just be nice to him and I'm sure it'll be okay. You can get a lot of places with just a few nice words!"
"You can," Orym replied, lifting his head but continuing to drag his hand over his nose. "I'm about as charismatic as a Klingon targ."
"Well, then I'll sweet-talk him and you just have to smile." Dorian continued to strum his—Orym was fairly sure it was a Vulcan lute?—instrument and Orym glanced around at the other passengers. "I wonder what kind of music he likes?"
"Good luck with that," Orym muttered. "I'm just going to try to not get punched."
The ship docked at Deep Space 6 about half an hour later, and Orym was even more jittery as he and Dorian grabbed their bags and departed. The civilians dispersed quickly, as if they'd made this trip before, but the two new officers hung awkwardly by the ship, waiting for something to happen. Orym checked his PADD.
"I thought the commander was supposed to be meeting us here," Orym said, flipping through the listed times and stardates yet again. "Yep, unless I'm reading this wrong, Commander Bertrand Bell—"
"Gentlemen!" called a deep voice, and Orym and Dorian both turned to see a grey-haired and pale-skinned humanoid striding up the walkway towards them, acommpanied by a purple-haired humanoid with skin of the same shade. The former wore a red Starfleet uniform, while the latter was in blue. As they drew closer, the commander—he had three pips on his collar, he must've been—amended, "Ah, er, Lieutenant, Commander? I apologize, Lieutenant Storm, I didn't mean to... impose our terminology on you..."
Dorian waved a hand dismissively. "No offense taken, Commander. In fact, no need to feel bad at all—by many definitions, I am a gentleman." The four genders of Andorians had taken Orym a little bit to wrap his head around, too, but once Dorian had explained them, they hadn't given him any more trouble.
"Ah, well, good," Bertrand replied awkwardly. He then gestured to his companion. "May I introduce Doctor Imogen Temult? She's our chief medical officer here on Deep Space 6."
"Charmed." Dorian held out a hand, and Imogen gingerly shook it.
"Nice to meet you." Orym gestured to himself, then Dorian. "Lieutenant Commander Ashari Orym, and Lieutenant Dorian Storm." It still felt wrong to call himself a lieutenant commander; that feeling of unease was worming itself back into his stomach.
"A pleasure," said Imogen. "I would like to just let you two know, if you haven't read the crew roster cover-to-cover yet, that my mother was a Betazoid, and I was lucky enough to inherit her gifts. So, uh, I can read your minds. And I can't turn it off. My apologies."
Oh, Prophets, don't let me think about something embarrassing… But, of course, as soon as Orym tried to avoid it, it jumped directly to the forefront of his mind. A memory of his husband, sweat-soaked and muddy, shirt tight across his biceps—
Imogen choked loudly and began to cough, and Orym felt his face turn red. Sorry, he thought, as pointedly at her as he could.
You, um, had a very lovely husband, came Imogen's voice back, and she finished coughing, seeming to recover from the ordeal.
"Are you alright, Doctor?" Dorian asked, with very sincere concern.
"Just fine," Imogen insisted, quickly, as she straightened her uniform. "I, uh, choked on my own spit. Nothing to worry about. If—if you'll excuse me, it was wonderful to meet you two, but I really must get back to my patients... Commander Bell here is going to give you a station tour, I think."
"Oh, yes, of course, thank you for accompanying me, Doctor," said Bertrand. "I'm sure I can handle these two younguns on my own! Toodleoo!"
Well, Orym thought, as Imogen left them, at least Bell's not an asshole? He wasn't sure if weirdly cheery and a little patronizing was better, but he could handle it. "A tour would be great, Commander," he put in, adjusting his collar yet again. "I've only been on Deep Space 9 before, and I know that one's pretty different."
"Not that different," Bertrand responded. "There aren't that many ways to build an effective space station, after all!" Orym was pretty sure there were a lot of ways, but he didn't want to get off on the wrong foot with his new superior officer. "Of course, you can always ask the station computer where things are, but I at least like to give my new officers a little helping hand so that they don't spend their entire first day wandering around aimlessly."
Again, Orym saw a large flaw in Bertrand's logic, but neither he nor Dorian pointed it out.
The 'brief' tour took almost an hour and a half, and Orym found himself barely paying attention to Bertrand by the end of it. When they ended at the bar, Orym almost considered getting a drink, before remembering that there were still quite a few hours left in the day and he needed to go introduce himself to the security staff.
He told Dorian as much, who informed him in turn that he was going to go investigate the astrophysics lab. And so, when Orym headed towards the security office, it was alone, feeling a bit like he was walking towards his doom, or at the very least, severe embarrassment. He'd been told that Lieutenant Greymoore would be there for the handoff, and he didn't know if he hoped they were alone, or if there would be other officers there to make sure Orym didn't make a fool of himself. He'd likely do so regardless, but he was trying not to think about it. And failing.
When he reached the security office, he could see the dim form of a humanoid through the window, but he didn't stop to regard them from there. He stepped right up to the door and it slid open automatically for him, and he let out a deep breath as he went in.
The Orion was sitting back in the chair, feet kicked up on the desk and looking down at a PADD in their lap. Their head slowly raised to regard Orym as he entered, and Orym suddenly felt stripped bare, even more so than when he'd known Imogen was in his mind. He repressed a shudder.
The office was dark, significantly darker than Orym would've liked it, and so he couldn't quite make out the details of the lieutenant's face as he set the PADD down and rose, but Orym knew he was being studied. Ashton's boots—non-regulation, but it seemed nobody around here was that particular about regulations, and Orym didn't mind it that way—pounded on the floor as he practically prowled around the edge of the desk, scraping his fingernails across the metal with an awful sound that made Orym wince.
"Lieutenant Commander Ashari Orym," Orym started, attempting to make a good first impression, "reporting for duty, sir."
"I'm sure you already know what my name is," drawled Ashton, as they stepped into the light, slanting in from the hallway through the windows. "You look like someone that does their research." They folded their arms over their chest and rolled their head back, looking down at Orym with an air of near-condescention. The golden glow caught their cheek, casting a dramatic shadow across their green skin, and Orym swallowed. Hard. "I'd say it's a pleasure, Commander Ashari, but it absolutely isn't."
The first thing was that Ashton was taller than Orym. Significantly. Orym wasn't tiny for a Bajoran, exactly, but he was smaller than average, and it seemed that Ashton was the opposite. With those boots on, Orym would've guessed that Ashton was at least a full foot taller than him. An old, but very visible scar covered most of the left side of their head, and Orym faintly wondered what it was from; from the way they held themselves, it was clear that they could handle themselves in a fight, and were perfectly willing to if necessary. Their hair was dyed a dark shade of purple and shaved into an undercut, and stuck up at odd angles like a jaggedly-cut rock. All in all, combined with the fact that they'd nailed Orym's name on the first try despite it being unintuitive for most humanoids, Orym was immediately having very unprofessional thoughts about Ashton, and was exceedingly glad that Imogen wasn't around.
But he couldn't afford to fuck this up, and with Ashton being an Orion, he didn't want to do or say anything that might have come across as stereotyping and/or sexualizing, so he drew on years of practice and pulled his expression into a flat one. "Believe me, I'm not happy to be taking over your job, either, since you seemed to be doing a really... really good work, Lieutenant Greymoore," Orym replied, with as evenly a tone as he could manage. "I imagine you'll be helping me settle in—getting used to the workload, and all that? I've never held a position like this before, as I'm sure you're well aware, and while neither of us may be... enthusiastic about it, I would really appreciate your help, or at least your cooperation."
Ashton blinked slowly at him. "Yeah," they replied, after a long moment. "Yeah, sure. This station seems like an easy assignment, but it isn't—the regulars are absolute petaQ s before you know how to handle them. And I don't want to see my new superior officer's face get bashed in during his first week on the job, now, do I?" He snorted a laugh.
Orym gulped at that mental image, and decided to focus on the least threatening part of that statement. "You... you speak Klingon, Lieutenant?" He only knew a few words, but petaQ was one of them. It was an insult, and a nasty one at that. Maybe he should've been reprimanding Ashton for his language, but he agreed with Ashton—he really did not want to get his face bashed in, as much as he had faith in Starfleet's medical tech.
"Better than I speak Orion," Ashton replied. He leaned forward slightly, and Orym almost flinched as he continued, "When I was five years old, I snuck onto a Klingon Bird-of-Prey and hid until they were too far away to reasonably turn around and take me back to my parents. I spent ten years living with Klingons and fearing that my parents would catch up with me, and when I was old enough to join Starfleet, I did. Does that answer your question, Commander?"
"You... didn't need to tell me any of that," Orym breathed. "It's none of my business."
There was a pause.
"Damn right it isn't," Ashton said. "So if you ever think about making it your business, you'll remember that I was raised by Klingons, and that I also know more about this station than you do." They grinned. "Have a wonderful first day on the job, Commander."
And as Ashton sauntered out of the room, Orym slowly sunk into his still-warm seat, trying not to enjoy the view and wondering if he should have felt more threatened than he did.
That night, Dorian found Orym at the bar, staring into a glass of springwine as if it held the answers to all his problems. Dorian slid onto the seat next to him, waved to the humanoid tending the bar, and then leaned towards Orym. "First day was that bad, huh?" he prompted. "Did Greymoore give you trouble?"
Orym let out a long, almost wistful sigh. And Dorian knew that sigh.
"Ah," Dorian breathed. "Let me guess... he's hot, and he hates you?" The bartender was then hovering in front of him, and Dorian beamed at her. "I'll have what he's having, please," he said, gesturing to Orym. "I'm Dorian, by the way."
The green-haired woman giggled. "Oh, yes, I know everyone that comes through here," she replied. "Call me Fearne, if you please."
Dorian's brow furrowed. "We've... never met, though?"
"I'm an El-Aurian, Lieutenant Storm," Fearne replied, as if it explained everything—which, to be fair, it did. "I just know." She paused. "And I may or may not have taken a peek at what Ashton was reading in here last week, and it happened to be your Starfleet records, so..."
"Ah. That makes sense," Dorian conceded. "In any case, just one springwine, please." And he turned back to Orym as Fearne moved away.
"Dorian," muttered Orym, and wow, he sounded pathetic. "Number one, they definitely hate me. Number two, they're an Orion with a rough past, and if I express any interest in them, it'll come across really bad. And number three, they're under my direct supervision, so it's like, I don't know, a power imbalance? Prophets help me." He let his head fall, and it nearly hit the edge of his glass.
"Oh-kay." Dorian lifted three fingers and began to tick them off as he spoke. "First, give them a chance to lick their wounds about losing their position, I'd say. Second, if you're not just interested in them because you think all Orions are sexy and exotic then I don't see the problem, attraction is normal. And third, they technically have seniority over you and are also not afraid to tell you to fuck off, so I don't think there's really much power you could lobby over them." He paused. "Does that help at all?"
"Yeah, a bit." Orym picked up his drink and downed the rest of it. "I just have so much more important stuff to be worrying about than a dumb crush on an abrasive lieutenant, y'know? This is the worst possible timing."
"M-hm, I understand," Dorian replied. "Would you like me to distract him for you, or something?"
Orym laughed and set his empty glass back down on the bar. "I'm curious as to what that implies," he said, "and how you'd keep my best officer out of my hair indefinitely, when I kind of need him on the job. But no, thanks."
"It's an open offer. You need Greymoore gone, just give me a ring, and I'll cook up something spicy to occupy them until things are all clear again," Dorian insisted. "Er—perhaps not 'spicy', exactly, but I have heard about some... interesting holoprograms..."
"I don't think I like where this is going," Orym decided. "Let's just say, keep it on the table, and discuss details if I ever need a Dorian Distraction, alright?"
"Ooh, a Dorian Distraction, that's a great name. Good alliteration," Dorian responded, nodding. "I'll be wherever you need me, boss. Unless I'm needed by a different boss. In which case, I won't be, but I'll try!" He paused, his mouth suddenly curving into a frown. "It's... very odd that you're my superior officer now."
"I know," Orym replied. "I don't like it. I don't like anything about this, actually. I wish we could just go back to the O'Shaughnessy and resume our old jobs."
Dorian pursed his lips. "Well, I do like the labs that they have here," he told him, slowly, "and you get to have your own office, that's quite fun."
"I guess it is," Orym admitted. "I'm glad you're happy here, at least."
"Anywhere is better than Andoria, to me," Dorian said, sincerely. "It's quite lucky that we were even transferred together, most of the time that doesn't happen. So, small victories, eh?"
"Yeah, that's true. This would be a lot worse if there weren't any friendly faces around."
"Fearne and Commander Bell have fairly friendly faces," Dorian pointed out.
"You know what I mean."
"I do." The conversation paused as Fearne returned with Dorian's drink, and Orym requested a refill. Then, Dorian resumed it once Fearne was out of earshot again. "So, what are you going to do about Greymoore?"
"Do about them?" Orym laughed. "Nothing, Dorian. I'm going to do absolutely nothing."
Ashton didn't really... get Bajorans. Not that he had anything against them, he really didn't, but after being raised around Orions, then Klingons, there were a lot of things about Bajoran culture that were new to him. Their religion, for example. The Klingon gods had all been killed after creating the first Klingon, and Ashton thought that was sick as hell. The rest of their beliefs centred on Klingons that had really earned their right to be worshipped after performing great deeds while they were alive, which Ashton thought was pretty fair, and he also secretly dreamed about being badass enough that people thousands of years later would worship his memory like a god. The fact that Bajorans believed that their deities were still alive, and actually gave a shit about them and vice versa, was honestly a little off-putting to him.
However, Ashton also respected Bajorans a whole lot, especially after learning about what they'd gone through under Cardassia, and as much as they wanted to tell them that their religion was stupid, sometimes, they weren't that much of a dick. Maybe they didn't get it, but they could appreciate it.
But Ashari Orym was fucking weird.
Well, maybe he'd just stared a lot, and it had made Ashton's skin prickle annoyingly, and maybe Orym was just that kind of guy, but it had been unsettling. And a little bit cute. Maybe a lot cute? Was it okay to call a Bajoran he'd just met 'cute'?
Ashton groaned and rested their head in their hands. They were sitting on their bed in their quarters, alone, having only a mild crisis about that small, green-eyed humanoid. Kahless help them, they hoped that they hadn't scared him too badly today. Wait, no, they did want to scare him. They had a reputation to uphold, dammit! How dare somebody just waltz into Ashton's life and find the single loose string on their delicately-constructed tapestry. Ashton didn't even know if Orym had meant to pull it.
He groaned into his hands a second time. He didn't even want to tell Milo about this, because they'd surely poke fun at him for it, and he didn't know if he could handle that on top of everything else. Damn him, damn Orym, and damn whatever gods did exist for sending a sweet, yet assertive, and way-too-handsome officer to be his replacement.
With that, Ashton flopped back onto their hard mattress and stared up at the blank ceiling. They'd never had whatever this was, before. Desire, yes—lust, mainly—but this was so... silly. Almost flighty, if they had to put an actual word to it. As if when they tried to put their finger on what they were feeling, it would simply vanish back into nothingness. And they wished it would.
A crush, Ashton realized. He had a fucking crush. He was twenty-nine, and this was his first crush.
Thoroughly annoyed, Ashton rolled over, planting their face directly into the pillows, and let out a guttural, rage-filled scream.
It didn't help.
Fuck.