In Principio: Alive With You Part 1

Posted on Fri Jul 10th, 2026 @ 3:17pm by Master Chief Petty Officer Julian Trent

2,177 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Murmansk, Federation staging area around Tagra IV
Timeline: 2374

USS Murmansk, 2374

The Murmansk had been out of combat for eleven hours. Not safe, because Julian had learnt not to use that word anywhere within range of the Dominion, but the ship had reached the Federation staging area around Tagra IV with two other damaged vessels, and the tactical displays showed nothing hostile within several light years. Cargo shuttles moved steadily between the repair depot and the ships in orbit, carrying replacement components, medical supplies, torpedoes and personnel who had been assigned quickly enough that some were still reading their transfer orders while stepping onto the transporter pad.

There would be no shore leave. Half the Murmansk’s external armour needed replacing, two phaser arrays remained offline and somebody in Operations had discovered that one of the cargo holds contained three hundred crates of emergency thermal blankets intended for a hospital on Betazed, which then had to be loaded onto a ship that would go closer to it than the Murmansk. Every department had lists of work long enough to survive the next war, assuming this one ever ended, but nobody was firing at them and the ship felt different because of it.

Julian had noticed people speaking too loudly in the corridors, laughter arriving at strange moments and lasting longer than the joke deserved. A woman from Engineering had begun crying in the turbolift because another officer asked whether she wanted deck six, then apologised so fiercely that the doors opened and closed twice before either of them moved. Tactical had spent the first four hours of the lull reviewing damage reports, the next three recalibrating targeting systems and the final two inventing work because nobody seemed willing to leave. Julian had eventually, with permission from the Department Head, told the junior personnel to go off shift, listened to them argue that there was still more to do and informed them that he would personally assign each of them to waste extraction if he saw their faces again before morning. People needed rest. Nerves, and mistakes, had started to happen.

Then he had remained for another hour, because he wasn’t prepared to leave easily either. He knew it was hypocritical, but he was also the oldest. Even his Department Head was younger than him now, a Lieutenant promoted sooner than anyone would have expected because casualties had left the position open.

Their quarters felt too quiet when he reached them. The silence had weight now that the alarms had stopped, pressing into spaces the noise had kept filled. Nico had not returned yet, but there were signs of him everywhere. His coffee mug sat beside the replicator, a uniform jacket had been folded across the back of the sofa and the Saint Luke medallion he sometimes removed before duty lay on the bedside table. Julian showered with a timer because of energy shortages, changed into clean clothes and stood for several minutes with one hand resting on the back of a chair, unable to remember what he had intended to do next.

So he left again, and by the time he returned to their quarters he was carrying a narrow storage container against his chest with both hands. The container was temperature controlled, shock resistant and sealed with the same care usually reserved for unstable medical cultures. One corner had been dented during transport, and Julian had spent twenty minutes convincing a Bolian supply officer that Tactical had a legitimate operational requirement for its contents.

The door recognised him with the familiar soft chirp which had long since stopped feeling like permission. The lighting had been dimmed while he was gone, and Nico sat on the floor beside the sofa with his back resting against it, still in uniform apart from his boots, which had been abandoned near the door without any attempt to place them neatly together. A PADD lay face down beside his thigh. He had washed, at least, but his dark hair remained damp and curled untidily at the temples. Unshaven, he looked rougher and older than he was.

Nico looked up when Julian entered, surprise briefly cutting through the exhaustion on his face. “You’re alive,” he said, his voice roughened by too little sleep and too many hours spent speaking over the noise in Sickbay.

Julian allowed the door to close before lifting the container slightly, presenting it instead of acknowledging the way those words tightened something in his chest. “I expected more…energy. Maybe even some swooning, considering that your knight in shining armour is bringing you contraband,” he said with a small smile, eyes softening.

Nico’s eyes moved from his face to the case, but he made no attempt to stand. “If that is homebrew from Collins, I am too tired to pretend it tastes good,” he said, rubbing one hand over the side of his neck.

“That has never stopped you before,” Julian replied as he stepped around the discarded boots and crossed the room.

“It has stopped me several times. You simply kept refilling the glass, as if it somehow could…soften what was happening around us, Jules,” Nico pointed out, shifting his legs enough to make space in front of him.

Julian lowered himself onto the floor opposite, his knees objecting immediately as he placed the container between them with appropriate ceremony. He leant back against the cabinet behind him. “This is better than alcohol.”

Nico studied the grey case before looking back at him, one eyebrow lifting with visible effort. “Medical supplies?” he asked with some hope, shifting again.

“You have become very boring,” Julian told him, resting one hand protectively on the lid.

“I have been awake for thirty-two hours,” Nico reminded him as he dragged both palms down his face, the movement rasping against the unfamiliar facial hair. They were both sporting it now, although Julian had shaved enough for the moustache to become an actual thing.

“That explains the lack of imagination.” Julian touched the release, and the seal opened with a faint hiss.

Inside, cushioned beneath the temperature field, sat four mangoes, their scent already escaping into the room. They were not replicated, preserved, powdered or reconstructed from a transport buffer pattern according to some computer algorithm’s idea of how the fruit should taste. They were real, grown somewhere with soil and sunlight, their skins coloured green, gold and red where they had ripened during transport.

Nico stared at them, and Julian watched the change move across his face slowly. Confusion came first, then recognition, followed by something much softer which Nico tried and failed to hide. One hand lifted towards the case but stopped before touching the nearest fruit. “Where did you get those?”

“Supply depot,” Julian replied, leaning back against the cabinet and arranging his expression into something appropriately casual.

“The supply depot had mangoes?” Nico asked, glancing at him before inspecting the contents again as if another look might reveal they were holographic.

“The supply depot had several crates of fresh produce intended for senior officers and diplomats,” Julian explained, choosing his phrasing with care.

Nico’s eyes narrowed slightly as he turned his head. “Which are you?”

“Neither, technically,” Julian admitted, reaching into the container to turn one of the mangoes so the redder side faced upwards.

“Jules,” Nico said, drawing out the name until warning and affection mixed through the exhaustion.

“I traded for them,” Julian replied, though the movement of the repair shuttles beyond the viewport had suddenly become worthy of close attention.

Nico followed his eyes for a moment before leaning his shoulder more firmly against the sofa. “With what?”

“A favour,” he said, letting out a soft breath as his eyes flicked briefly towards Nico.

“What favour?” Nico asked as he nudged the edge of the container with one finger, settling in to wait him out.

Julian sighed and looked back at him. “That is between me and a Bolian who now believes Tactical will overlook a minor irregularity involving his sister’s transport allocation to a ship going…away from all this.”

Nico’s mouth moved despite himself. “You abused your position for fruit,” he said, frowning.

“I prefer to think I demonstrated flexibility within a complex supply environment…and also helped one person,” Julian replied, picking up one of the mangoes and weighing it lightly in his palm.

“You stole mangoes,” Nico said, though the smile was beginning to win.

“I did not steal them.” Julian offered him the fruit and waited until Nico finally took it. “I redirected four, while…you know…just not correcting something I happened to spot. At most I did some mild blackmailing.”

Nico laughed, the sound quiet at first before it caught somewhere deeper and grew until he pressed one hand against his mouth. His shoulders shook against the sofa, and Julian felt some of the tension inside his own chest loosen at the sight.

When the laughter faded, Nico held the mango beneath his nose and breathed in, his eyes closing as the scent reached him. “My grandmother used to buy these from a market near her church,” he said, his thumb moving across the smooth skin. “She would hide the best ones from my uncles because they ate everything before it was ripe.”

“Your family stories suggest your uncles were responsible for most forms of human suffering,” Julian observed, watching the memory soften Nico’s features.

“They were teenage boys. It is practically the same thing,” Nico said as he opened his eyes, the warmth returning to his voice. He looked towards the kitchenette and then down at the fruit. “Do we have a knife?”

Julian followed the movement of his eyes without making any attempt to rise. “You’re asking me where we keep things now?”

“I am asking whether you have the energy to stand up,” Nico corrected, tapping the mango lightly against Julian’s knee.

“No,” Julian admitted, letting his head rest briefly against the cabinet.

“Neither do I,” Nico said, looking towards the counter with quiet resentment.

They both considered the problem from different angles until Nico planted one hand against the sofa and dragged himself upright. He moved with the stiffness of someone whose body had continued long after it stopped asking permission, and Julian watched him cross to the kitchenette, noticing that his uniform trousers hung slightly looser around his hips than they had a month ago.

Nico returned with a knife, two spoons and a plate balanced against his chest. Julian pulled the container closer and shifted it between his feet, clearing the space beside him. Nico lowered himself there less gracefully than usual, one hand catching Julian’s shoulder before he dropped the final few centimetres.

“You could have asked for help,” Julian said, steadying him by the waist until he was settled, but keeping his arm around him for a moment longer, Nico’s weight warm and solid against his side.

“You could have stood up,” Nico replied, leaning against Julian for a second longer than necessary before reaching for the mango.

“I was guarding them…in case of mango thieves,” Julian explained, adjusting the storage container protectively between his feet.

“Where would they be hiding?” Nico asked, looking around their empty quarters.

Julian followed his inspection with appropriate suspicion. “There’s always somewhere for villains to hide…” he said lightly before reaching to stroke over Nico’s shoulder for a moment.

Nico shook his head and began cutting into the fruit. Juice ran immediately across his fingers and onto the plate, the smell filling the space between them. He sliced both sides away from the stone, scored the flesh into squares and pushed the skin upwards until the pieces separated.

Julian watched with interest, his shoulder now resting against Nico’s. “You’ve done that before.”

“I have lived a full and varied life,” Nico replied as he worked the knife around the stone with practised movements.

“I had no idea it involved specialised fruit preparation,” Julian said, reaching towards the plate when Nico set down the first half.

Nico slapped the back of his hand with the flat of the spoon before his fingers reached it. “Grace,” he reminded him, though the word carried affection rather than warning.

Julian withdrew his hand with an injured expression while Nico bowed his head. The prayer was brief and spoken in Spanish, too low for Julian to catch every word, but he recognised thanks, protection and the names of the dead woven into the familiar cadence. Grace had once belonged to proper meals. Now Nico said it whenever he managed to eat at all.

There were more names than usual, and Julian could not remember the last time he had seen Nico finish a proper meal.

When Nico finished, his hands remained folded for several seconds, eyes closed and breath held somewhere high in his chest. Julian watched without moving, the anticipation of the fruit replaced by something heavier, until Nico finally opened his eyes and murmured, “Amen,” before reaching for the spoon.


to be continued in part 2

 

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