|Earth, Starfleet Command...Admiral's office.
||[May. 6th, 2009|03:35 pm]
::relaxes when doors slide shut, shutting out the latest in a long string of secretaries...for reason's beyond the Admiral, the turnover rate is high::
::quirks lips in self-amusement at less than respectful thought, sitting bag down in chair and neatly folding jacket atop it::
::keeps fists balled around thick, course material, eyes lifting to bay of windows across opposite wall...foot traffic below is light and brisk, those still around this late all too eager to escape and head home...or just away::
::twists head, scanning the rest of the room, though not expecting to see anything new...the Admiral's home away from home has been the same since knee socks and hair bows...form, function, little in the way of distraction::
::curves lips again, eyes settling on sole picture allowed a place on the neat, utilitarian desk::
::catches sight of assistant in peripheral vision, nodding acknowledgment of her silent summons::
::discreetly glances at chronometer perched on table short distance away, brows furrowing in puzzled irritation...surely, no more appointments this late::
::bids farewell to audience, listening to Lydia's quick briefing::
Moira? But her transport wasn't due for at least a week...she must have shanghaied a civilian vessel.
::grimaces faintly in distaste at the thought of how much annoyance that might stir up amongst the Romulan fed::
::suppresses due lecture for the moment, stepping back into office and settling for a kindlier greeting::
Molly? I'm aware that we both value punctuality, but this time you seem to be early.
::stiffens at nickname despite self, barely managing not to call him out on the use of it::
::drops jacket entirely instead, turning to meet worn but still alert and curious blue eyes::
Did you really think I'd stick around Romulus after getting your letter?
::lifts corner of mouth, moving a bit closer and stretching out an appeasing arm at her predictably furious tone::
I wasn't certain. You seem fond of the place, for some reason.
:shakes head firmly, not about to be drawn off track by engaging in political debate::
I do good work there.
But...I can do good work here too.
I want your medical records. I'll look over them tonight and see if I find any gregarious errors...
There aren't any errors, Molly.
I've been scanned, poked, and prodded by the best medical personnel...military and civilian...to be found. I can assure you that had I thought you might be able to differentiate the diagnosis in any way, I would have contacted you long before Katherine Pulaski got her hands on me.
::deciding that a hug won't come willingly, reaches for a still balled fist instead, squeezing gently::
There are treatment options already being discussed. I didn't bring you here to worry over me.
Yet you knew I would come if you sent that letter.
In fact, you never send letters, so what other conclusion should I have come to upon receiving one except that you were critically ill and wanted my care?
That I wanted your presence, perhaps?
::lets that near accusation linger for a moment, unfazed by her stubborn gaze::
Have you been in touch with your mother since arriving?
::sucks in breath, beating back a flash of white hot anger...same old guilt tactics::
::shakes hand loose, stepping away in effort to regain equilibrium...manipulative or not, he's sick, and...Dad::
Yes, as a matter of fact.
I'm supposed to be bringing you home as soon as possible.
Then we should go.
::reaches over to grasp the luggage left resting on nearby chair, waving off any budding protest::
Don't be angry until you fully understand, Molly. There is business we need to attend to. I'll explain that to you soon enough.
::extends free arm again, releasing a small smile as youngest daughter grudgingly links own::
In the meanwhile, catch me up on the good work you've done for the Romulans?