Frankly, my dear, it’s just a ship (by Cass & Gage)

[Gage Silver 0]

Frankly, my dear, it’s just a ship.

A Granger-Silver Log

 

 

Frankenship. Trusty little ship. Ugly ship. Maintenance nightmare. Ship no self-respecting fleeter wanted. A ship for the reluctant hero, constantly fighting with his machine but never trusting another. Magnet for trouble. With a lot of luck and a few minor injuries, she'd get you through any situation. Guaranteed epic adventures. But don't forget your brown pants.

 

Gage felt a connection with her. Part of him wished it was just him and the ship marauding out here. Maybe he’d retire and become a roguish captain. Leave all of his troubles with females behind. Smuggle goods through the outer rim and dodge Imperial Klingon cutters in a piece of swift junk he won fair and square cheating in a game of cards. Daydreams. At best he could count himself lucky that he wasn't the only engineer aboard this tour, the more his head ached. Gradually slouching from the chatter in the mess, he’d put his feet up and tugged the dark brown fedora of his relic-collecting alter ego low over his eyes.

 

Cass sat at the next table, one hand on her thigh as she straddled a bench, her eyes flicking from the fedora to the edge of their table as though gauging distance, trying to decide if she should reposition herself to take down the fedora or just settle for splatter. Hec’t and Tasha turned aside, playfully reconning the target. O’Neill exchanged a glance with Moa, shook his head with a sigh and lounged back, elbow on the table.

 

On the other side of the table, Souter took aim with a forkful of creamed peas seconds before Cass held up her hand. “This one’s mine,” she said, loud enough to carry, surly tone fully deployed.

 

"I know you're not gonna do what you're thinkin' about doin'," Gage spoke lowly from beneath his hat.

 

A chorus of “Ohoooos” egged Cassie on. She swung the other leg over the bench to lean closer, forearms resting easily on her thighs, hands dangling between them.

 

“And just what am I thinkin’ about doin’, sir?” she said, an impish grin lighting up her eyes.

 

"Starting a fight you won't win."

 

Trays clattered. Bodies shifted into position. Conspiratorial whispers passed down the line. Daniels began a drumroll on the tabletop.

 

“Looks to me like you’re outnumbered, El Tee.” She ticked her head in the direction of the team, “Then again, I wouldn’t think of letting you face the food mill by yourself.”

 

Gage eased up the brim with a finger and peered at the firing line with one eye, the other tightly closed against the light. "Right," he skeptically drawled.

 

“We could even the odds,” she suggested, tilting her head down to close the gap.

 

The other eye opened slowly, skepticism blending with a private frustration. “We, huh?” His tone wasn’t lost on those who knew what had happened between Cass and Gage or the few who noticed how their roles had reversed after New Topeka. Gage keeping his distance and growing stricter, punctilious. Cass more and more the banterer, irritating Gage whenever she tried to get a rise out of him.

 

She shrugged and leaned closer, the hint of a smirk emerging. “A little one-on-one?”

 

He studied her, eyes wandering a bit, but sluggish and constricted. “Didn’t think you were down with that,” he muttered and promptly stood.

 

He made for the exit, reseating the fedora on his head. “There’s no we, Cass," he announced, saying more than he intended. "There’s me, the lieutenant; and you, the team. I say 'jump', you ask ‘how high’. Today I say--" He stoically grinned at the compartment in the fedora’s shadow.

 

“You lose.”

 

And he ducked out, Souter's peas splattering on the bulkhead in his wake.

 

Cass eyed the bulkhead from the bench, disappointed that the plot had backfired. “Sorry, guys,” she said with a dismissive wave at the exit, “can’t say I didn’t try.”

 

Silence.

 

She looked up.

 

They looked back, hungry eyes fixed on hers.

 

“Oh..h...ho.. no. No...,” her hands thrown up in feigned petition broadened their predatory grins as she eased herself to a stand, countering their movements, her eyes darting from one to the other, calculating an exit strategy.

 

Souter and Daniels shifted to flank, mashed potatoes to the left, creamed peas to the right. Tasha and Gonzales wielded custard and spaghetti to block the exits.

 

O’Neill stepped away from the line and assumed a casual pose, checked his chrono to mark the time, and began finger-writing on his left palm like he was keeping score. His barely audible, “Execute,” began the attack and they pummeled the warrant until she could have passed for a pile of scrapings except that she bobbed and weaved with every shot and the language that emerged would’ve made a garbage heap blush.

 

Moa? He stood at the galley door with mops and buckets, placating the galley chief until Cass had paid her dues.

 

Some time later Cass exited the lift at the barracks, having mostly ignored the comments about carpet stains and walking buffets. She would have stripped in the mess, but that didn’t seem becoming an officer. Not that a walking buffet did either, but you get the drift. No, she didn’t enjoy the plastering, but yeah, she did, given the team did. At her expense. Because of Silver.

 

Thankfully, team barracks were quiet, some having gone on-shift and the rest dead-out in their bunks, catching as much as they could whenever they could. Fleeting thoughts of payback came as Cass stripped and tossed her fatigues into the recycler before stepping into the shower, her once-a-week water ration quickly hosing off the remnants of dinner.

 

Appearing in the hatchway at the opposite end of the compartment, Gage steadied himself. He trudged to his rack, gripped the frame and gingerly collapsed onto the bunk with a low groan.

 

Cass pulled on her tee and exited the shower area in time to see Silver’s collapse: not an unusual action given the team schedule during ops prep. “Hello, sir,” she said, grabbing a water. “Come to assess the damage?”

 

Gage wearily opened a single eye to give her a once-over. "Looks like you took care of it," he indifferently replied after a beat, unaware of what had happened in the mess.

 

She gave an ironic chuckle. “Too bad you didn’t stay.” The water container gave a pop as she recapped it after a swig and dropped onto the bunk next to his. “You could’ve witnessed your own payback,” Cass continued playfully, “Custard was first-rate -- what little got into my mouth. Spaghetti,” she waggled her hand, “not so much. And cream peas make a damn good substitute for sealant; my fatigues would’ve made a good EVA suit.”

 

She watched him a minute, then leaned forward, lips pursed. “You look like hell, sir. You okay?”

 

"Been better," he quietly admitted.

 

“Sounds like you might need medical. Should I call?”

 

"Been there. Got meds. Want sleep," he mumbled.

 

Giving an unseen nod, Cass swung her legs onto the cot and watched him a minute before closing her eyes. “I’ll be here.”

 

* * * * * *

 

 

Unless you’re dog tired, there’s only so long you can lie on a bunk trying to sleep until it really gets to you, your body starts twitching, and your brain goes haywire. At least that’s the way it is for Cassie Granger. The situation tends to be compounded when you’re trying very hard to not do something because it’s a hell of a lot easier to do something than to not do something.

 

Someone tells you, “Don’t look,” and sooner or later you’re going to look. You have to look. If they really didn’t want you to look they wouldn’t have said anything in the first place, and chances are that the one who told you not to look had a real sadistic reason - or so it seemed. Both parties know for damn sure you can only resist that urge for so long before you just have to look.

 

It’s Apple Syndrome, pure and simple. Don’t eat the fruit ends up with the fruit being eaten followed by the blame game and everyone getting kicked out of paradise. Or Starfleet.

 

Yeah, it’s a whole lot easier to do something than to not do it. And at the moment Cass was trying to not think about a lot of things, one being the guy one bunk over. Whether it was a calculated move on the part of billeting or a sadistic twist of fate, trying to sleep with him right _there_ was damn difficult if not impossible.

 

“Don’t think about it,” someone had said with a dismissive shrug. Like it was that easy. But when she really thought about it, having her bunk at the end of the line wouldn’t have helped either. Then she’d probably be thinking about being able to sleep in the bunk next to him and someone would say the same thing: don’t think about it. Go figure.

 

* * * * * * *

 

After several hours, Cass realized that sleep wasn’t in the plan, so she swung her legs over the side of the bunk to stare at Silver. He didn’t look good at all. In fact, he looked worse... his face pale... frozen in a pained expression, and... he’s not breathing...

 

“Lieutenant?” she said, bolting off her bunk into a kneeling position beside his. Getting no response, one hand took a firm grip on his shoulder and she upped her volume, “Silver!”

 

Gage jerked awake and sprang up, hand clamping on her wrist like a vice. Cass’s body tensed as she parried into a defensive position and for several seconds the situation teetered on the brink. He stared at her, half out of his bunk with one foot on the deck and breathing heavily, the alarm in his face slowly fading as he came to his senses.

 

“Cass,” he sighed and relaxed back onto the mattress. “Don’t do that.”

 

“Just makin’ sure you’re alive, Sir,” she said with relief, adding wryly, “and it looks like you are.”

 

“You sure I didn’t just die of a heart attack?”

 

She was clearly not amused.

 

He rubbed at his eyes with a mildly pained expression. “What time is it?”

 

“Two hundred hours,” Cass replied as she dropped back onto her bunk and hung her head, one hand rubbing her neck.

 

“Gotta couple more hours before I relieve what's-his-face in engineering,” Gage quipped. “Guess I’ll get up.”

 

“Groginski,” Cass commented absently.

 

Gage paused as he climbed out of his bunk, eyes on Cass. “What’s going on, Cass?”

 

“Groginski. Kid’s name’s Groginski. Marty I think. Sat with him in the mess once.”

 

“Not talkin’ about Groginski, Cass,” he replied. “What’s going on with you? Look moped out.”

 

Cass looked up, dropping her hands to rest on the edge of her bunk, resolved. “Tired. Worried. Frustrated,” she replied, then added, “Can’t sleep thinking about that last op...,” she sighed, correcting herself, “raid. We can take the goods and not take out the pirates. Worried about the Fleeters on Rura. Frustrated because....” She eyed him a minute, then let the thought hang with a sigh waving a hand dismissively. “Just... because.”

 

“Okay,” Gage neutrally drawled after a moment and shrugged. He looked lost, like couldn’t decipher ‘just because’ and decided it was safer at the moment to let it go. “Gonna see what they’ve got for midwatch rations. Try and get some sleep?”

 

“Been trying. Not gonna happen.” She looked up wearily, “Want some company?”

 

“Sure,” he accepted with a hint of wariness.

 

Cass pushed herself to a stand and tagged along, wandering through the barracks and down the corridor toward the mess.