First (NOT A) Date, Part 3
Posted on Tue Apr 29th, 2025 @ 11:46pm by Crewman Mateo Gardel & Lieutenant JG Riaothren (Ren) ch'Shaorhs
3,335 words; about a 17 minute read
Mission:
To Boldly Go
Location: Holodeck, Deck 9, USS Fenrir
[ON - Continued from Part 2. And, now, the conclusion]
"I can relate to that. I mean it's what makes you, you. It is enough for now. Why don't we start by becoming friends? It doesn't have to be anything more, but I think we could both use a friend."
"Oh, please don't take this the wrong way. I'm mostly saying it because, as I've already mentioned, I'm a smart ass. But you're kind of cute when you blush."
Mateo’s lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came out right away. The compliment landed like a misaligned data packet—received, acknowledged, but not fully parsed. His ears were warm, definitely warmer than they had been, and he could feel the color lingering in his face, which only made it worse. His instinct was to retreat, mentally and physically, to tuck himself behind sarcasm or feigned indifference. But Ren’s tone hadn’t been teasing in the usual sense—it was gentle, almost admiring. Mateo didn’t know what to do with that, so he did what he always did: he tried not to make a thing out of it.
He rolled his eyes, but the motion lacked conviction. “You’re lucky I don’t spill this sadat on you,” he muttered, nudging his cup just a centimeter closer to the table’s edge. But there was no real bite to it—if anything, there was a reluctant curve at the corner of his mouth, like he wasn’t sure whether he was amused or just disarmed. “Friends is good,” he added after a pause, more quietly. “I can do friends.” That much, at least, felt solid beneath his feet. Manageable. He wasn’t ready for anything else. But he didn’t mind this—the sitting, the sharing, the sense that maybe he wasn’t as impossible to connect with as he’d always assumed.
The Speaker reappeared then, silent as before, and extended both hands to retrieve the bowl. The spirals within had gone still again, the colors matte now, no longer pulsing. He offered no words, only a small, shallow bow that could have meant anything: gratitude, closure, permission. And then he turned and walked away across the stone floor, his robe catching the low ambient light in soft folds. Around them, the room remained alive with quiet conversation, but something had shifted—like the ritual had opened something that didn’t need to be spoken aloud."
"Tomorrow, at least tomorrow as far as the program is concerned, our major contribution meeting with some of the natives in more relaxed setting takes place. Tonight, there is dancing coming up. If you're okay with that."
"Do you want to continue now, or pause things and come back tomorrow, tomorrow?"
Mateo’s shoulders shifted, just slightly, like the word dancing had pressed an invisible button somewhere between his spine and his breath. It wasn’t fear, not exactly—but it was close to the same species. He’d never really understood the mechanics of dancing, let alone the purpose. Was it performance? Ritual? Physical flirting disguised as fun? He was sure it made sense to other people, but to him, it felt like an exam without a rubric. The idea of it—music, movement, all those unscripted limbs—sent a quiet hum of static through his ribs.
But Ren hadn’t invited him to dance. Not yet. He’d simply mentioned it. Offered it as a future event, a gentle maybe. And then, even more kindly, offered him a way out. Mateo sat with that for a breath or two, tracing the lip of his now-empty cup before setting it aside. No pressure. No expectation. Just a question.
He met Ren’s eyes for a heartbeat, brief, deliberate. “Let’s pause,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “Come back tomorrow, tomorrow.” The faintest curve of a smile touched his mouth as he echoed the phrase. “Besides, I’ll need the extra twelve simulated hours to figure out how not to trip over my own feet.” A dry beat. “Scientifically.” He didn’t look away this time.
"Computer, freeze program," the Andorian said. The marble building faded away, replaced by the bright yellow grid of the bare holodeck.
His smile was wider than Mateo's, but not by much. "What I had in mind was group dancing. It's found in a lot of different cultures. That's how I programmed it. But I can change it if you want. I could teach you how to dance one-on-one. I've had my share of practice."
The sudden shift from marble sanctuary to yellow grid left Mateo blinking, but he didn’t retreat. He listened to Ren’s offer—the suggestion of group dancing, then one-on-one—and felt the world tip slightly sideways. He loved music. Loved dancing, even. But privately, where it was safe. In his quarters, barefoot, with nobody watching. Or in a crowd so dense no one noticed him. Dancing with someone else was different. It wasn’t anonymity. It was exposure. Every touch, every glance, every molecule of heat and scent would crash into his senses without a buffer. And yet, some small, stubborn part of him—some part he’d been trying to nurture—wanted to try. Wanted to meet the moment, even if it terrified him.
He rocked lightly on the balls of his feet, grounding himself. “One-on-one might be better,” he said after a beat, his voice soft but certain. He didn’t meet Ren’s eyes right away—needed a second longer to build the scaffolding for the words. “Group dancing’s easier when you can disappear into the noise.” A dry flicker of humor lifted one corner of his mouth. “Harder to fake it when it’s just you and someone else.” It wasn’t self-pity. Just acknowledgment. A landscape he didn’t know how to map yet, but was willing to walk across.
Finally, he looked at Ren fully, the barest hint of a real smile surfacing—unguarded, if only for a breath. “If you’re willing to teach someone who mostly dances in locked quarters and concert pits...” he said, voice warming despite himself, “then yeah. I’ll try. No promises about your toes, though.” 'Humor tucked itself around the edges of his awkwardness like armor—but it was softer this time. Not a shield. A bridge.
"I'll take my chances," Ren replied. "Why don't you come to my quarters later, and we can have our first lesson. Jairic is out for the evening, so we'll have the place to ourselves.
"I think he might even have some cookies. Do you like oatmeal raisin:"
Mateo shifted his weight slightly, feeling the bright emptiness of the holodeck settle against his skin like a second, looser uniform. Private quarters. One-on-one. Cookies. He wasn’t naïve about what those elements might suggest to someone else—but with Ren, somehow, it didn’t feel predatory or loaded. It felt… careful. Like being offered a steady hand to step onto a rope bridge he wasn’t sure he trusted yet. His brain whirred through the logistics—noise levels, light levels, escape routes—and his heartbeat ticked higher with each mental checkpoint. It wasn’t fear, exactly. It was the awareness that whatever happened next, he wouldn’t be able to fade into background noise. He would have to be seen.
Mateo pushed a breath through his nose and gave a small, dry huff of something that might’ve been a laugh. "Full disclosure," he said, tone light but earnest, "I didn’t grow up with oatmeal raisin cookies. We had alfajores. A lot of dulce de leche." The corners of his mouth twitched upward, not quite a smile but something close. "What do they taste like?" he asked, the words slipping out with more genuine curiosity than caution. It was an offering, small and unpolished, like a hand stretched halfway across a gap. Humor was safer than silence. Safer than admitting the mess of nerves and strange hope turning cartwheels just under his ribs.
Then, quieter, with a flicker of real humor behind it, he added, “But I’m willing to risk it.” His hands slid into his trouser pockets again, grounding himself the way he always did when the world felt like it was tilting, and he gave Ren a glance that was quick but steady. “For the dance lesson. And the cookies. In that order.” His voice was dry, but something in his posture—something tentative and deliberate—said he meant it. All of it.
Ren paused before replying. He had just invited another man to his quarters. Sure, his intentions had been innocent and without guile, But still Mateo was attractive and gay and single. A not-so-innocent thought rose in his mind, and he quickly dismissed it. It just wasn't possible.
"Sweet. em, buttery, a hint of nuttiness. And a little fruitiness, too, from the raisins is how they taste."
"But as you said, we'll have the dance lesson first."
"Can I ask you a personal question?"
The shift in Ren’s tone wasn’t sharp, but Mateo caught it anyway—the way the energy changed, just slightly, like a current moving deeper under the surface. He straightened his posture a fraction, his senses narrowing their focus. Personal question. That could mean anything. His brain, predictably, jumped through a dozen possible scenarios in the span of a breath, none of which helped steady his heart. And yet, the way Ren said it—without pressure, without expectation—eased the weight before it could settle fully across his chest.
Mateo slipped his hands a little deeper into his pockets, grounding himself, and gave a small nod. "You can ask," he said, voice even but not cold. He didn’t offer a promise to answer. He didn’t offer assurances. Just the space—the invitation. It was all he could give in that moment, and maybe that was enough. A quiet, unspoken understanding shimmered between them like the fading echoes of the holodeck simulation: not everything had to be rushed. Some questions could simply hang in the air for a while, waiting to be met.
He glanced over at Ren then, a brief, searching look that didn’t quite reach full eye contact but stayed close enough to say he was listening—really listening. "Just..." Mateo hesitated, then let a breath escape, softening his words with the barest curve of a smile. "Go easy on me. I’m still new at the whole... friend thing." The admission wasn't self-deprecating, exactly. Just honest. Unvarnished. The kind of truth that cost him something, but that he offered anyway.
Ren blew out a long breath. Both his eyes and anteanne were focused on the other man. "Trust me, I'm just as new to the friend thing myself, too. I promise this is an easy question, or at least it's not too intrusive."
"I've noticed that you keep putting your hands in your pockets or fidgeting. I've seen it more when you seem nervous. Why do you do that? Do you know?"
Mateo blinked once, slowly. Of all the things Ren could have asked, he hadn’t expected the question to land so precisely. His hands—his movements. Things he didn’t think about consciously most of the time. His thumb brushed instinctively against the inside seam of his pocket, grounding him even as he processed the weight of being seen. Not accused. Not judged. Just... noticed. And asked. His chest tightened for a moment, but it wasn’t fear. It was the delicate pressure of someone gently reaching past his armor without trying to tear it down.
He shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders back, and let out a small, sheepish breath through his nose. "It’s... like grounding," he said, voice low but steady, his gaze flickering briefly toward his own hands. "It’s a way to measure where I am. When things feel big or unpredictable, I focus on something small. Texture. Pressure. Movement. The seams of my pockets. How my fingers move. It gives me something real to hold onto when everything else feels..." He hesitated, searching, then added, "too wide." He shrugged, the motion uneven but genuine. "It keeps everything from floating off into chaos."
He hesitated again, feeling the vulnerability open wider than he intended. So he offered a thin smile—honest, if a little raw. "I guess it’s better than biting my nails or hiding under a table." A beat, the smallest spark of dry humor threading through. "Although, full disclosure... the hiding part has crossed my mind once or twice." His voice stayed soft, colored more with amusement than shame. He wasn’t mocking himself. He was just telling the truth.
It was Ren's turn to hesitate. He was not often left not knowing what to say or do, but this was one of those moments. He reached toward Mateo to touch him, to comfort him, but caught himself halfway to the other man's arm and pulled away."
"Thanks," he said a last. "I know that wasn't easy for you, that you don't share that with everyone. I am honored that you trusted me with it."
"If you would allow me one more indulgence, liberty might be a better term. I could make you something to help with that. I have an idea."
Mateo caught the aborted motion—the way Ren’s hand started toward him and stopped midair—and something about the smallness of it, the care behind it, tightened the breath in his throat. Most people didn’t bother to catch themselves. Most people didn’t even notice when they crossed lines he hadn’t invited them over. Ren’s hesitation wasn’t rejection. It was respect. And somehow, that landed harder than any touch would have. Mateo blinked once, then shifted his weight, subtle but deliberate, letting the air settle between them without breaking it.
He tucked his hands a little deeper into his pockets, grounding himself, and gave a faint, careful smile. "Thank you," he said, voice low but steady. "For... noticing. And not pushing." He didn’t say for understanding—because he wasn’t sure anyone could fully understand. But Ren had come close enough to matter. Close enough that Mateo felt the tug of something unfamiliar and cautious but real in his chest. A thread of trust, thinner than a breath, but strong enough to hold weight.
At Ren’s next words, Mateo’s head tilted slightly, a small, unconscious motion that made him look younger than he meant to. "An idea," he echoed, the word almost tentative. His fingers brushed once against the seam of his pocket, grounding. "What kind of idea?" The question wasn’t suspicious—it was quiet, careful, genuinely interested. He wasn’t closing the door. He was edging it open, leaving just enough space for something unexpected to find its way through.
"I'm not a counselor, I probably wouldn't make a good one, but I toyed with the idea of becoming one when I joined the Academy, and I took a few courses. I'm rambling. Sorry. Anyway, you mentioned that putting your hands in your pockets was better than biting your nails. What if there was another way to help you deal with things when you felt...overwhelmed. Is that the wrong word? Sorry, I'm rambling again."
"I could create a tool for you. Something you could keep in your pocket and then take in your hand when you needed it?
Mateo stood very still, listening. He heard the rambling—the way Ren seemed almost nervous about offering too much—but it didn’t put him off. If anything, it softened something brittle in his chest. Ren wasn’t offering pity. He wasn’t trying to fix him. He was offering a tool. A bridge. A way to stay anchored without having to explain or defend it. Mateo blinked once, slowly, and for a moment, he didn’t trust himself to speak without his voice giving too much away.
He shifted, brushing his thumb lightly against the inside seam of his pocket. "Overwhelmed’s... not the wrong word," he said at last, voice low but steady. "It’s just one I don’t usually let other people say out loud." His mouth twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t nothing, either. "I think... a tool could help. Something small. Something real." He kept his tone practical, almost clinical, the way he might discuss lab equipment—but the thread of gratitude running through it was impossible to miss.
He looked at Ren fully then, a rare thing, and for once, he didn’t immediately look away. "If you really want to," he said quietly, "I’d be honored to have something you made." And he meant it. More than he knew how to say. Some part of him—the part that still curled inward when offered unexpected kindness—marveled that Ren even thought to offer it at all.
Ren felt something warm in the core of his being. It was small, but it was real. He couldn't quite identify it yet; that would come with time, or it wouldn't. He was tempted to reach out and touch Mateo, but he overcame the temptation this time before his arms moved. Touching was his way of connecting, not the other man's.
His entire body was still, except for his antennae, which were tilted slightly forward, twitching back and forth.
"I will come up with something tomorrow, and maybe we can meet sometime after that?"
"And, em, did you want me to teach you to dance now? Slow dancing does involve touching."
Mateo exhaled softly through his nose—more breath than sound—as if his body were trying to ease itself back into baseline. Ren’s words weren’t pushy—they never were—but they reached places in him that still felt a little raw from being opened. He appreciated the way Ren didn’t flinch from silence. The way he filled it without crowding it. For a long moment, Mateo just stood there, letting the quiet hum of the holodeck fill the space where tension had lived moments earlier.
"Not tonight," he said at last, his tone gentle, not closed. "But soon." His fingers flexed once at his sides, like they weren’t entirely sure what to do without pockets to retreat into. "I want to try. I just… I think I’d like to end today holding onto what worked." There was a faint lilt of self-conscious humor in his voice, but underneath it lived something steadier—gratitude. And the barest glimmer of anticipation.
He turned slightly, just enough to take a step toward the arch. Not leaving—just signaling the direction of things. "Let me know when you’ve made your mystery tool," he added, the edge of his mouth twitching upward. "I’ll be curious to see what you think I need." He didn’t say thank you again. He didn’t have to. It was in the stillness. The softness in his gaze. The fact that—for the first time in a long while—he didn’t feel like he was waiting for the moment to end.
The left corner of the Andorian's mouth twitched upward. If he felt disappointment, he hid it well. "I'm a little curious, too, about the tool. I'll let you know. Maybe we can start your dance lessons then."
The holodeck’s soft gridlines pulsed faintly beneath their feet as silence settled again—this time, not heavy or awkward, but companionable. There were still words unspoken, steps unlearned, promises only half-made. But for now, that was enough.
[OFF]
Lieutenant JG Riaothren ch'Shaorhs
Assistant Chief Operations Officer
USS Fenrir
&
Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist
USS Fenrir
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