In the Quiet of Night [1/2]

Posted on Sun Aug 31st, 2025 @ 10:59pm by Commander Cornelius 'Kit' Hanlon & Crewman Mateo Gardel

1,878 words; about a 9 minute read

Mission: To Boldly Go
Location: Personal Quarters, Deck 4, USS Fenrir
Timeline: Day 8, 00:30

[ON]

The overhead lights were dimmed to a soft, honeyed glow, casting long shadows across the quiet, empty room. Mateo stood by the edge of his bed, dragging a hand through his damp hair, the ends clinging stubbornly to his fingers. The oversized sweatshirt he wore hung heavy against his still-warm skin, the fabric carrying the faint scent of home—lavender, mint, and something older, harder to name. He flexed his toes against the coolness of the floor, feeling the faint pull of the glossy topcoat drying smooth across his nails, a small ritual he hadn't skipped even on the most exhausting nights. Around him, the familiar hum of the ship's life support system filled the space, soothing in its predictability.

He had intended to crash the moment he finished his shower, maybe thumb through the half-read novel blinking lazily on his PADD until sleep finally dragged him under. His uniform was folded in its usual neat pile at the foot of the bed, boots tucked precisely beneath it—an unconscious habit, a nod to control when everything else felt too loose to hold. He dropped onto the mattress with a soft grunt, stretching out like a cat too tired to move, his sweatshirt slipping up slightly to expose a sliver of olive-toned skin. It was late by shipboard time—past the hour when anyone sensible would be awake—so when the console chirped, a sharp, insistent pulse against the quiet, Mateo blinked in confusion, chest tightening before his mind caught up.

He sat up slowly, bare legs swinging off the edge of the bed as he reached for the console. A quick flick of his wrist cleared the incoming transmission alert, and there it was: Renata Gabriela de Luce. His heart gave a small, unbidden lurch—like it always did when it was her. He didn't think of it as homesickness exactly, not anymore. It was something quieter. A soft ache tucked between his ribs, something that reminded him that no matter how far he drifted, someone still waited for him to check in.

A smile ghosted over his lips, unpracticed but real, as he tugged the sweatshirt collar higher out of reflex. She wouldn't care if he looked half-asleep and vaguely feral—she never had—but Mateo still straightened his posture a little, dragging a hand through his hair again to tame the worst of the damp, curling mess. The transmission initiated with a soft flicker, and he leaned closer to the screen, the ambient light from the console bathing his face in a pale glow. For a heartbeat, he just hovered there, breathing in, letting the anticipation settle into something steadier than nerves.

"Hey, má," he said softly, voice roughened by exhaustion but threaded with unmistakable warmth as the screen came to life. And just like that, the cold weight of the day slid off his shoulders, replaced by the simple, stubborn fact of her—steady and bright, even across the stars.

Renata watched her son for a long moment, a small smile coming to her. Seeing his face, there was the moment where she could see the excited and shy five year old standing on the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her, clutching a flower he had taken in his hand. She blinked, and saw the things that had changed as Mateo had gotten older. She also saw the dark circles under his eyes, heard the tiredness in his voice despite the love in his voice. "Tesoro, you look tired," she said, not beating around the bush. No, she was a practical woman and sometimes, you had to just say something to create an opening. "How are you settling in?"

Mateo’s mouth tilted in something that wasn’t quite a smile, more a flicker of warmth tempered by exhaustion. He scrubbed a hand lightly across the back of his neck, the oversized sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder as he shifted. "Estoy bien," he said automatically—reflexive, like muscle memory—before catching himself. His gaze dropped for a moment, lashes casting soft shadows against his cheekbones, before he lifted his eyes back to the screen. "I'm fine," he repeated in Federation Standard this time, a little softer, a little closer to honest.

He pulled one leg up onto the bed, folding it beneath him, the casualness of the motion betraying a bone-deep weariness he couldn't quite hide. "It's..." He hesitated, fingers plucking lightly at the hem of his sweatshirt. "Different." The word was weighted, covering too much and not enough all at once. "Better, maybe," he added after a beat, voice low but sincere. "I’m still trying to figure out where I fit. But they’re... letting me." The admission felt strange on his tongue, like something fragile said aloud for the first time.

He huffed a soft breath, shaking his head, a damp lock of hair falling over his forehead. "I miss you," he said finally, and there was no armor in it, no deflection. Just a raw, simple truth, laid bare between them across the cold stretch of space.

"I miss you too," she admitted as she watched him, her eyes gentle and patient. She had contacted him because she had felt a need to, a motherly need to see and hear her son so far away. Now she had, it soothed the ache in her heart enough for her to focus on his wellbeing. "It sounds like you are hopeful. I haven't heard you speak like that for years, Mateo. Not...without any bitterness."

Mateo shifted again, pulling the oversized sleeve down over his hand like he used to when he was younger, when words felt too heavy in his mouth. He didn’t look away this time, though; he met her gaze across the screen, something unguarded flickering in the rich brown depths of his eyes. "Yeah," he said quietly, almost like he was testing the sound of it for himself. "I think... I am."

He let the admission settle between them, the silence stretching out not as something awkward, but as something understood—like the space between heartbeats. He hadn’t realized how much bitterness had crept into his voice over the years until it wasn’t there anymore, leaving a hollow he didn’t know how to fill. "It’s not easy," he said, voice rasping slightly at the edges. "Some days, I still feel like I’m...waiting for the ground to give out." His hand curled loosely in the fabric of his sweatshirt. "But it's different here, má. Different in a way that doesn't feel like a trick."

A beat, then his mouth quirked—tired, but real. "You know me. I don't say things like that unless I mean them." His throat bobbed with the effort of keeping the emotion steady, but he didn’t hide it. Not from her. "I think I might actually be okay."

She let out a soft breath of acceptance, giving him a small nod. "And it makes me very happy, Mijo," she admitted as she folded her hands in her lap, keeping them still there. She had a tendency to use them a lot when she talked, yet the screen wouldn't allow for that. "And it's okay to feel what you feel. The nerves, the doubt. You can feel them, but don't let them conquer you. You are much stronger than your fears," she added the last with a small smile, raising her eyebrows at him. Words she had told him since he was a child. What she had made sure every child, not just her own, knew.

Mateo’s lips twitched, a thread of something achingly familiar passing across his face—half a smirk, half something softer, more vulnerable. "I remember," he said, his voice dropping into something almost shy. "You used to say that when I wouldn’t jump off the dock into the river."

He rubbed at his jaw with the heel of his hand, feeling the scratch of stubble under his fingertips, and shook his head lightly, as if trying to dislodge the swell of memory. "I didn’t believe you then," he admitted, the ghost of a laugh threading through the words. "But I think maybe... I get it now." His eyes burned for a second, sharp and sudden, and he ducked his head, blinking it away before it could spill over.

When he looked back at her, there was a steadiness there, raw but growing stronger, like a flickering flame finding its footing. "I’m trying," he said simply. "Even when it's easier to be scared."

The weight of it settled into his chest—not a burden this time, but something closer to pride, a quiet honoring of everything she had given him without ever asking for anything in return. "I’m trying to be someone you can be proud of," he added, the confession so low it barely carried across the connection, but it was there, thick with everything he couldn’t always say out loud.

"Oh...Mateo..." she shook her head, a small but sad smile coming to her. "I am proud of you. I have always been proud of you and I will always be proud of you. You don't need to try and be someone else. You just need to be you. Yourself, authentically...that is more than most men could ever hope to be. And you have always been yourself. Don't try to be something for me. Be something for yourself."

Mateo swallowed hard, the muscles in his throat tightening against the sudden rise of emotion. He ducked his head, pressing the heel of his palm lightly against one eye, pretending—if only for a second—that it was just exhaustion weighing him down. But he wasn’t fooling her. He never could. "I know," he murmured, voice rough and worn thin, the words catching somewhere deep. "I know, má."

He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself with the simple, practiced rhythm she had taught him long ago—when the world felt too big, too sharp. Her words wrapped around him now the same way her arms once had: a shield, a tether, a truth stronger than fear. "Sometimes..." He lifted his gaze, meeting hers across the screen, "sometimes it’s easier to believe the bad stuff people say about you than it is to believe the good."

A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, self-deprecating but softer now—less a weapon turned inward, more a quiet acknowledgment. "But I’m listening," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "I’m trying to listen to you more than the noise."

He shifted on the bed, pulling his legs in closer, the oversized sweatshirt pooling around him like a cocoon. The fabric smelled faintly of home, of comfort, of everything he hadn't realized he needed until this moment. "You always knew better than I did," he added, the glint of something familiar—something teasing—lighting up his tired brown eyes. "Even when I didn’t want to hear it."

To be continued in part 2

Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist
USS Fenrir

&

Renata Gardel
[Written by Hanlon for this post]

 

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