|Captain's Log, Supplemental.
||[Jul. 10th, 2009|09:04 pm]
Titan has been out of drydock and officially under my (ever so reluctant though it be) command for nearly a month now.
Despite my first officer's nearly irrepressible desire to test the new quantum slipstream engine, we've managed to keep a fairly slow...and therefore fairly steady...course to Deep Space Nine, where we expect to grant last shore leaves and pick up a few final crew additions.
I hope to have my head engineer and pilot aboard by the end of the week.
Then, as Dax would say in her charmingly Earth imitative manner, we put the pedal to the metal...
::holds finger over save key, debating...maybe at this point, short and sweet is best...especially since the sweet wears thin fast when certain Trill are part of the topic::
::punches it, settling back in already creaky chair with the vaguest sense of satisfaction::
::chuckles, sweeping arm out politely as ready room door opens, while still putting more distance between...professional distance::
You know, after we clear Deep Space Nine, I'm half tempted to order a straight course toward Voyager's coordinates, scientific exploration
and Borg hunting be damned.
I think I'd like to meet this Casanova who leaves broken hearts behind everywhere he goes and yet still manages to survive to see the next chase.
You've already met him, or a close enough substitute.
When we get back to quarters, I'll point you in the direction of a mirror.
Sadly, it's Mr. Paris himself who seems to be receiving a cold shoulder at the moment. I would say fair turnabout, but
for once he doesn't seem entirely deserving. If he were, this particular case might be easier to work through.
::smarts, but leaves it alone::
I say tack it up to karma and let him sort through it on his own.
::at sideways look, adds to judgment:
One man...officer's...love life seems an insignificant thing to be worrying yourself over in the grander scheme of your Pathfinder duties.
It's one heartbreak, and he's apparently had it coming to him.
I wonder...had we been in contact with Voyager several years ago when his wife died, would you have said the same?
::steps into lift, folding arms::
Will. Let me handle the psychology and Pathfinder.
::mostly ignores guilt stirred by the chastisement...that was, after all, several years ago...and some men always manage to bounce back to form regardless of how heartsick they might have once been::
Well, you brought it up.
While we're on the topic...any idea how our doctor is settling in?
As well as might be expected for someone unaccustomed to starship life, I suppose. She hasn't been out and about much...apparently, she's picking over crew records with a fine toothed comb. Not a very big fan of Starfleet Medical.
::pauses, not exactly wanting to admit the rest...hasn't wanted to brave sickbay to do any up close observation of dr_moira_paris
' coping mechanisms::
Well...that should at least mean she isn't from the Pulaski school of thought.
::lifts shoulder in half-shrug...it's a silver lining::
I could care less what her opinions on military medicine are, as long as she can practice on par.
I don't like the idea that she's barricading herself off, though. Once we reach open space, the last thing the crew will need is evidence of obvious division...or unhappiness...from senior staff.
If she didn't want to be here, she should have left the job to someone who did.
That's not fair, Will. She hasn't said or done anything to imply she has any real problem with being here.
::frowns trying to analyze few, brief reference 'scans'::
I think it's more a matter of feeling that her efforts could be put to better use elsewhere.
I'll speak with her
just hopefully not in sickbay.
You should as well, you know. You haven't exactly been very welcoming.
I haven't hadtime
to kiss Paris tail...
::remembers own words...crew unity, crew unity::
Fine. I'll work her in.
Now...can we call it a day, Counselor?
On one condition.
::unfolds arms, reaching over to manually override destination::
We stop by the mess first and stuff my mouth with chocolate.
I suppose that qualifies as a gag.
::gives grin as return for annoyed look, grabbing a hand and tucking it protectively into own...off duty, protocol be damned::
::sweeps other hand out when lift door opens again, in general direction of ship's social hub::
Lead the way, Mrs. Riker.