Fic Post: A Pause
Title: A Pause
Author: vegawriters
Series: The Secret Knowledge of Water
Fandom: Star Trek: Picard
Pairing: Laris/Zahban
Timeframe: Pre-series
Rating: Gen
A/N: The comics related to Picard have Laris and Zhaban defecting the Tal Shiar to work for Picard. This is an expansion, perhaps, of that.
Disclaimer: I make not a nickel from any of this. I do it because I love it. But if you know, someday, I were to make it happen …
Summary: Only one thing was missing. One person. One man who would make this moment better. Who would take her hand and pull her close. Late, lonely nights left her missing him more than she would have ever admitted back when they were sneaking into each other’s quarters and throwing caution to the wind right under his mother’s nose.
Dalkey, Ireland
2384 - One year before the attack on Mars
Nights were the hard part, really. But, she supposed, that in exile, nights were supposed to be difficult. They were designed for playing long, solo games of pixmit, and drinking the tea her neighbor two doors down so artfully crafted.
Laris was coming to love Ireland. Initially, she had walked warily around the small island, feeling the distrust shown on most of the population’s face - mixed of course with the typical human confusion - and had hated every smooth forehead and round set of ears. Most of them couldn’t tell the difference between Romulans and their Vulcan cousins, and they didn’t care to. Which, in the end, served her better. For all the talk of paradise, they didn’t trust Romulans and they had little reason to. Part of her wanted to adopt the stoic nature of her distant relatives. To suppress all the emotion that bubbled so close to the surface - terror, rage, hopelessness, gratitude. But she was a Romulan and proud of the feelings that roiled through her green blood - it was a bond she shared with her human neighbors. Had she realized just how passionate and vibrant humanity was, she would have found far more respect for them far sooner than she had. They were not, as Romulan propaganda wanted them to believe, lazy, slothful, and hopelessly stupid.
No, humans were fascinating. A world with no money yet where privilege still existed. A world with no hierarchy but still with bloodlines and families to respect. A world that was kept safe most often by the spies who worked elsewhere, stopping threats before they started. They were far more Romulan than any would want to admit and Romulans well, were far closer to humanity than it was safe to even dare think.
Still, in all her years, Laris never dreamed she could fall in love with such a small, simple town. Such a gentle life. It wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Romulans weren’t supposed to fall in love with small, simple things. What her childhood hadn’t pressed for expectation, the Tal Shiar had made sure of. Life was supposed to be hard and full of anger and secrets and she wasn’t supposed to trust anyone, from the little girl two cottages down to the priest in the church she attended Sunday mornings when she was simply bored. No one was safe, no one was whole, not even those you loved with all your heart.
Sometimes, usually as she was laying the final card into the pixmit scheme, the truth hit with the hard force of a disruptor blast: technically, she was a defector. She’d been ferried by the Ambassador through to protection, yes. But should she be hunted down, there was no way to prove the Ambassador had done this out of the goodness of her heart, her need to save as many Romulans as possible and she still wasn’t sure that the Federation’s promise of asylum would hold up in that instance. Then, she would stack the cards and begin again, and in the morning wander into town for her morning coffee and eggs and toast at the little cafe down by the water. Daylight allowed her to savor her freedom.
Only one thing was missing. One person. One man who would make this moment better. Who would take her hand and pull her close. Late, lonely nights left her missing him more than she would have ever admitted back when they were sneaking into each other’s quarters and throwing caution to the wind right under his mother’s nose.
Would he approve of the hair she was growing out, the curls she was letting fly, the lighter color she now dyed it - as much to fit in with her human neighbors as to play with her appearance in ways that she’d never been allowed before. Would he share her love of Irish Whiskey? Or dare to try the pub that made a decent approximation of Romulan gortag? Of course here they called it corned beef.
Still, she was restless. Cautious. Technically she was still in the employ of the Tal Shair, so had they figured out the Ambassador’s game and killed off those she might shuttle next? Had Zhaban refused to go? Was the State more important than their promises to find peace together someday? Would he be the one they sent to bring her home? Or would he be the one waiting to kill her?
Laris was like so many refugees who had been shuttled here and there by the government as the supernova grew in size. Every day, she could swear she saw the stars above her changing. The news from her beloved homeworld was spotty and desperate. Her people were dying and there was nothing to do about it but pray to Gods the Romulans had given up generations upon generations ago. She found some comfort in the meditation of her pixmit cards - and the similar oracle cards she’d found in a shop shortly after moving here. Where she found her most surprising peace though, was the ancient church that still stood in her small village. At least twice a month, Laris found herself in the back row, observing rituals that meant something to those kneeling and standing and singing toneless songs. She’d asked the priest once after service why he still practiced. Science had all but disproven the existence of god, she’d argued.
The priest only smiled and asked one question of her, “Do the Prophets of Bajor disprove the existence of their gods?”
“Yes!” She’d argued with a bit of a laugh, already hearing his point. “Of course they do. They are alien beings. Just because the Bajorans think they are gods does not change anything!”
“Yet, those beings have helped to guide the people of Bajor since before your culture or mine were walking upright. Perhaps we can acknowledge that there are concepts larger and greater than we want to believe. Perhaps it can be respected that God, however that image exists, helps us to understand that the universe is so much larger than we can even comprehend.”
The answer had only angered her, mostly because she was frustrated with her own people for giving up their faiths and myths, but she hadn’t stopped going. The building was dark and full of images to meditate upon and there were moments when she saw some common themes in the stories. How was it that so many vastly different cultures came back to the same questions of life, and what happened after?
Had she died when she left Romulus? Was this what happened after?
The question haunted her as she made her way back from services, stopping for fresh bread and to indulge in the newly wrapped chocolates at Etienne’s shop. Maybe it was the reading about the young woman pushed aside by society but welcomed by her savior (they knew that her washing Christ’s feet was a seduction, right?) or maybe it was the familiar tingling crawling up her spine.
She was being watched.
Followed.
No good Tal Shiar agent was without a weapon. Even here. Laris slipped her hand oh so carefully into the small pocket of her loose fitting trousers. The phaser, only as big as her thumb, was there and waiting. She knew better than to alert her shadow to their presence, and it was useless to walk past her home. Whoever was there already knew enough about her to know her paths through town. As she came up to her gate, Laris paused and turned, hoping they would slip up and show themselves.
Instead of the face of an assassin, she saw eyes she dreamed of.
Once, their affair was a deep, hidden secret. Even his mother hadn’t known. Once, they had stared longingly across dark rooms at each other, sneaking off for moments cut short by checks for tails and bugs. Now, they were both here, stranded on a world that wasn’t sure they wanted them. Both of them out of uniform. Tears welled up and throwing aside all caution, all training, knowing that agents could still be there and be ready to blast them both into dust, Laris dropped her bags of bread and chocolate and launched herself at the man she loved more than anything. Only when after he broke off the kiss did she stop expecting the disruptor blast to take them. After all, hadn’t even Christ been betrayed by one of his own lovers with a kiss?
“Where have you been?” She asked, ignoring the tears on her cheeks.
Zhaban only shook his head and stroked her hair. “I’m here now.”
“And you’ll tell me the truth,” she fired back. “But first ….”
He laughed. She laughed, took his hand, and dragged him inside.
After, they lay in her bed. He twirled his fingers through her damp curls, she traced her fingertips over his now-bald head.
“I like it,” she murmured.
“I like this,” he responded.
“Where have you been?” She repeated the question, looking up into his familiar, comforting eyes.
“Getting our people off of Romulus,” he said, but his eyes were haunted and she knew it was a half-truth he was still wrestling with.
Laris sat up, tucking the sheet around her, “What happened?”
His silence told her the conversation would not happen tonight. He had to wrestle with what brought him here, but she could see the blood reflected back in his eyes. How many people had they killed over the years? What had been the moment where it was too much?
Before he spoke again, his eyes darted around the room and she knew he was looking for the corners where a bug or a camera could be hidden. She took a breath and shook her head. “If they care, they don’t care about me, Zhaban.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they haven’t killed me yet.”
He laughed, softly, and leaned in to kiss her. She let him take her, rising her passions back to meet him. For so long, they’d given each other only moments of joy. Now they could have ....
Could they dare?
“What do you do here?” He asked as he trailed his fingers over her body.
“Well,” she laughed. “I’ve learned to cook.”
He raised an already high eyebrow and his Northern ridges seemed to go with it.
“I read,” she continued. “I garden and I …” she took his hand and kissed his palm. “I’ve made friends. At first I thought they were all Section 31 agents.”
“And now?”
“I’m only sure that one is.”
Again, he laughed, free and happy. “You sound like them,” he said. “You’re picking up this accent of theirs.”
“It’s the Island. Margaret says the Gods gave it to them when they were first blessed with the land.”
“Wow,” he said, “you have acclimated. I’m amazed.”
She let the moment linger. “As am I.”
The silence settled into a long, lingering kiss, and his body settling again on top of hers, her legs twining with his. It was surreal, to have him here, to be so sure the world would rip itself apart and they’d be dragged back to a dying world and left with the ragged and destitute. And yet here, in this moment, they were allowed to not care. Just for a moment. To know that if anyone cared, the sentence was already handed down.
She’d hunt for bugs in the morning, like she always did. She’d rise early and make her breakfast and pour tea and spend the morning in the garden.
Gods willing, Zhaban would as well.
Gods willing, this was not a dream.
Author: vegawriters
Series: The Secret Knowledge of Water
Fandom: Star Trek: Picard
Pairing: Laris/Zahban
Timeframe: Pre-series
Rating: Gen
A/N: The comics related to Picard have Laris and Zhaban defecting the Tal Shiar to work for Picard. This is an expansion, perhaps, of that.
Disclaimer: I make not a nickel from any of this. I do it because I love it. But if you know, someday, I were to make it happen …
Summary: Only one thing was missing. One person. One man who would make this moment better. Who would take her hand and pull her close. Late, lonely nights left her missing him more than she would have ever admitted back when they were sneaking into each other’s quarters and throwing caution to the wind right under his mother’s nose.
Dalkey, Ireland
2384 - One year before the attack on Mars
Nights were the hard part, really. But, she supposed, that in exile, nights were supposed to be difficult. They were designed for playing long, solo games of pixmit, and drinking the tea her neighbor two doors down so artfully crafted.
Laris was coming to love Ireland. Initially, she had walked warily around the small island, feeling the distrust shown on most of the population’s face - mixed of course with the typical human confusion - and had hated every smooth forehead and round set of ears. Most of them couldn’t tell the difference between Romulans and their Vulcan cousins, and they didn’t care to. Which, in the end, served her better. For all the talk of paradise, they didn’t trust Romulans and they had little reason to. Part of her wanted to adopt the stoic nature of her distant relatives. To suppress all the emotion that bubbled so close to the surface - terror, rage, hopelessness, gratitude. But she was a Romulan and proud of the feelings that roiled through her green blood - it was a bond she shared with her human neighbors. Had she realized just how passionate and vibrant humanity was, she would have found far more respect for them far sooner than she had. They were not, as Romulan propaganda wanted them to believe, lazy, slothful, and hopelessly stupid.
No, humans were fascinating. A world with no money yet where privilege still existed. A world with no hierarchy but still with bloodlines and families to respect. A world that was kept safe most often by the spies who worked elsewhere, stopping threats before they started. They were far more Romulan than any would want to admit and Romulans well, were far closer to humanity than it was safe to even dare think.
Still, in all her years, Laris never dreamed she could fall in love with such a small, simple town. Such a gentle life. It wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Romulans weren’t supposed to fall in love with small, simple things. What her childhood hadn’t pressed for expectation, the Tal Shiar had made sure of. Life was supposed to be hard and full of anger and secrets and she wasn’t supposed to trust anyone, from the little girl two cottages down to the priest in the church she attended Sunday mornings when she was simply bored. No one was safe, no one was whole, not even those you loved with all your heart.
Sometimes, usually as she was laying the final card into the pixmit scheme, the truth hit with the hard force of a disruptor blast: technically, she was a defector. She’d been ferried by the Ambassador through to protection, yes. But should she be hunted down, there was no way to prove the Ambassador had done this out of the goodness of her heart, her need to save as many Romulans as possible and she still wasn’t sure that the Federation’s promise of asylum would hold up in that instance. Then, she would stack the cards and begin again, and in the morning wander into town for her morning coffee and eggs and toast at the little cafe down by the water. Daylight allowed her to savor her freedom.
Only one thing was missing. One person. One man who would make this moment better. Who would take her hand and pull her close. Late, lonely nights left her missing him more than she would have ever admitted back when they were sneaking into each other’s quarters and throwing caution to the wind right under his mother’s nose.
Would he approve of the hair she was growing out, the curls she was letting fly, the lighter color she now dyed it - as much to fit in with her human neighbors as to play with her appearance in ways that she’d never been allowed before. Would he share her love of Irish Whiskey? Or dare to try the pub that made a decent approximation of Romulan gortag? Of course here they called it corned beef.
Still, she was restless. Cautious. Technically she was still in the employ of the Tal Shair, so had they figured out the Ambassador’s game and killed off those she might shuttle next? Had Zhaban refused to go? Was the State more important than their promises to find peace together someday? Would he be the one they sent to bring her home? Or would he be the one waiting to kill her?
Laris was like so many refugees who had been shuttled here and there by the government as the supernova grew in size. Every day, she could swear she saw the stars above her changing. The news from her beloved homeworld was spotty and desperate. Her people were dying and there was nothing to do about it but pray to Gods the Romulans had given up generations upon generations ago. She found some comfort in the meditation of her pixmit cards - and the similar oracle cards she’d found in a shop shortly after moving here. Where she found her most surprising peace though, was the ancient church that still stood in her small village. At least twice a month, Laris found herself in the back row, observing rituals that meant something to those kneeling and standing and singing toneless songs. She’d asked the priest once after service why he still practiced. Science had all but disproven the existence of god, she’d argued.
The priest only smiled and asked one question of her, “Do the Prophets of Bajor disprove the existence of their gods?”
“Yes!” She’d argued with a bit of a laugh, already hearing his point. “Of course they do. They are alien beings. Just because the Bajorans think they are gods does not change anything!”
“Yet, those beings have helped to guide the people of Bajor since before your culture or mine were walking upright. Perhaps we can acknowledge that there are concepts larger and greater than we want to believe. Perhaps it can be respected that God, however that image exists, helps us to understand that the universe is so much larger than we can even comprehend.”
The answer had only angered her, mostly because she was frustrated with her own people for giving up their faiths and myths, but she hadn’t stopped going. The building was dark and full of images to meditate upon and there were moments when she saw some common themes in the stories. How was it that so many vastly different cultures came back to the same questions of life, and what happened after?
Had she died when she left Romulus? Was this what happened after?
The question haunted her as she made her way back from services, stopping for fresh bread and to indulge in the newly wrapped chocolates at Etienne’s shop. Maybe it was the reading about the young woman pushed aside by society but welcomed by her savior (they knew that her washing Christ’s feet was a seduction, right?) or maybe it was the familiar tingling crawling up her spine.
She was being watched.
Followed.
No good Tal Shiar agent was without a weapon. Even here. Laris slipped her hand oh so carefully into the small pocket of her loose fitting trousers. The phaser, only as big as her thumb, was there and waiting. She knew better than to alert her shadow to their presence, and it was useless to walk past her home. Whoever was there already knew enough about her to know her paths through town. As she came up to her gate, Laris paused and turned, hoping they would slip up and show themselves.
Instead of the face of an assassin, she saw eyes she dreamed of.
Once, their affair was a deep, hidden secret. Even his mother hadn’t known. Once, they had stared longingly across dark rooms at each other, sneaking off for moments cut short by checks for tails and bugs. Now, they were both here, stranded on a world that wasn’t sure they wanted them. Both of them out of uniform. Tears welled up and throwing aside all caution, all training, knowing that agents could still be there and be ready to blast them both into dust, Laris dropped her bags of bread and chocolate and launched herself at the man she loved more than anything. Only when after he broke off the kiss did she stop expecting the disruptor blast to take them. After all, hadn’t even Christ been betrayed by one of his own lovers with a kiss?
“Where have you been?” She asked, ignoring the tears on her cheeks.
Zhaban only shook his head and stroked her hair. “I’m here now.”
“And you’ll tell me the truth,” she fired back. “But first ….”
He laughed. She laughed, took his hand, and dragged him inside.
After, they lay in her bed. He twirled his fingers through her damp curls, she traced her fingertips over his now-bald head.
“I like it,” she murmured.
“I like this,” he responded.
“Where have you been?” She repeated the question, looking up into his familiar, comforting eyes.
“Getting our people off of Romulus,” he said, but his eyes were haunted and she knew it was a half-truth he was still wrestling with.
Laris sat up, tucking the sheet around her, “What happened?”
His silence told her the conversation would not happen tonight. He had to wrestle with what brought him here, but she could see the blood reflected back in his eyes. How many people had they killed over the years? What had been the moment where it was too much?
Before he spoke again, his eyes darted around the room and she knew he was looking for the corners where a bug or a camera could be hidden. She took a breath and shook her head. “If they care, they don’t care about me, Zhaban.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they haven’t killed me yet.”
He laughed, softly, and leaned in to kiss her. She let him take her, rising her passions back to meet him. For so long, they’d given each other only moments of joy. Now they could have ....
Could they dare?
“What do you do here?” He asked as he trailed his fingers over her body.
“Well,” she laughed. “I’ve learned to cook.”
He raised an already high eyebrow and his Northern ridges seemed to go with it.
“I read,” she continued. “I garden and I …” she took his hand and kissed his palm. “I’ve made friends. At first I thought they were all Section 31 agents.”
“And now?”
“I’m only sure that one is.”
Again, he laughed, free and happy. “You sound like them,” he said. “You’re picking up this accent of theirs.”
“It’s the Island. Margaret says the Gods gave it to them when they were first blessed with the land.”
“Wow,” he said, “you have acclimated. I’m amazed.”
She let the moment linger. “As am I.”
The silence settled into a long, lingering kiss, and his body settling again on top of hers, her legs twining with his. It was surreal, to have him here, to be so sure the world would rip itself apart and they’d be dragged back to a dying world and left with the ragged and destitute. And yet here, in this moment, they were allowed to not care. Just for a moment. To know that if anyone cared, the sentence was already handed down.
She’d hunt for bugs in the morning, like she always did. She’d rise early and make her breakfast and pour tea and spend the morning in the garden.
Gods willing, Zhaban would as well.
Gods willing, this was not a dream.