::twists chair, climbing to feet::
Since you're available, would you mind coming to my office, though?
I just received an incoming transmission that I should probably turn over to you.
Is it my father?
::pauses to hand petri dish to nearest tech, sliding around counter and heading for door on opposite wall::
...is it about my father?
No, and I'm not sure, but probably not.
::sighs again...unless something has changed drastically over the past few days, ltcmdrtomparis still
won't exchange more than officialese with the Admiral...and seeing how he seems not to communicate with any other family member either, it's unlikely he would have anything about the old man to ask
::unless Mr. Hot Shot has finally decided
to swallow his pride and mend fences...::
Although, if it is, you will tell me, won't you?
::stops before door to the counselor's lair, hands on hips::
I don't know. You're the nosiest person I've ever met, in or out of Starfleet. Are you certain it's a matter of professional concern?
::stops mid suck, quickly spitting candy in nearest recycler before door can open::
::peppermints are poor substitute for the usual after shift chocolate splurge::
::folds hands primly behind back as Titan's CMO steps in, wary expression doing little to conceal her open curiosity::
Doctor, we've been over this. I was born with my talents. I can't help it if I feel a need to put them to good use whenever possible.
Just about every creature I've ever encountered is born with a knack for curiosity. Most sentients, even the telepathic ones, just learn to mind their own business after a few hand slaps.
::shakes head...damned Betazoids and their laissez-faire approach to parenting::
I think I may tell Dax she needs to dust off the counseling boots and sit down with you sometime.
I'd have access to the video logs. It would provide entertainment, at least.
Well, if you're going to threaten me, I'll just leave.
::flashes smile to reassure companion that the exchange was taken in good humor...mostly::
::waves to terminal on way out::
It's an entirely secure station.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date.
Tell your husband to watch his intake. I'm pulling random physicals tomorrow, but I'm not promising how random.
::watches counselor leave with slight amusement despite self, only turning eyes to terminal after an obnoxious Starfleet beep::
::takes abandoned seat, keying up channel and fortifying self...probably Command, but no telling who or why::
::looks at chronometer on opposite wall for the fifteenth time in the last minute, shifting in seat impatiently::
::is about to hang up on the aggravating woman when screen suddenly flickers to life again, earning a genuine jump of surprise::
It's about time. I don't know what school of comm etiquette you went to, but...
::freezes when gaze hits very, very familiar blue eyes instead of inky black ones, sliding chair back in automatic...deference, defense?::
::snorts at own immaturity, straightening a notch::
Well, well. That was easier than I expected.
::balls a fist out of habit, debating whether he deserves a throttling or a hug::
::unclenches it quickly...distance considered, neither is optional, no use wasting the energy::
::presses a hand to temple instead, forcing self to hold the look of challenge, if only to study and remember differences...the few pictures leaked by the Admiral aren't enough::
What was easier than expected?
::bites back what could prove to be a faintly hysterical laugh, struggling to maintain tone of amiable derision::
From what the Admiral has been slipping into his official letters, I thought you were off in the wilds of the Romulan empire, being almost as big a disappointment as me.
Glad you made it home. Now what the hell are you doing buddying up with Troi?
::settles back in the counselor's comfy chair with an internal heave...this will be fun, clearly some things never change::
I was, I did, and I'm not. I just happen to work next door.
::wracks brain...Troi's location is quasi-classified, Command somehow has a hand in disguising the from here to there details of even Pathfinder's communications, but little details are hard to miss::
::that's no terrestrial office she works from::
On a starship? You hate space!
Anybody with a decent sense of self-preservation would. Unfortunately, modern life doesn't cater to the intelligent.
::absently picks up stylus, twirling it::
Besides, if I remember rightly, you're pretty claustrophobic yourself, yet you've lived on that ship for seventeen years.
Don't remind me. To think I used to dread the possibility of staring at ye old cell wall every day for the rest of my life. At least it had graffiti.
::grins a little despite self, and at her untouched honesty::
All right, Molly mine, let's call a draw.
We're both sell-outs.