Something Sweet

Posted on Mon May 26th, 2025 @ 3:49pm by Lieutenant JG Sylorik MD

Mission: Season 6 - 5.5 - Day to Day
Location: Main Sickbay, Deck 12, USS Elysium
Timeline: 1850 Hours
3188 words - 6.4 OF Standard Post Measure

The child whimpered.

The girl was no older than six. She lay on the biobed, her small face flushed and eyes glassy, tufts of lavender hair sticking damply to her forehead. Her mother hovered anxiously nearby, her hands wringing the hem of her red-and-black tunic. The father--dressed in civilian clothing--stood motionless with arms crossed, his concern hidden behind the taut mask of a man trying not to panic.

"Open your mouth again, please," Sylorik said calmly. His voice was soft but precise. The medical tricorder in his right hand chirped softly while the illuminated tongue depressor in his left flattened the tongue of the child while shining a light into her throat. He closed the tricorder and withdrew the depressor.

He gave the girl a tiny nod and retreated to a nearby tray where he began preparing a hypospray. Satisfied with the dosage, he returned to her side and found himself staring into the big brown orbs of her eyes. She was scared.

The girl blinked up at him. "Will it hurt?"

Sylorik shook his head slowly. "No," he replied. "The opposite, in fact. This medicine will reduce the swelling in your throat, allowing you to breathe and swallow with ease."

He offered the hypo to her with a steady hand. She hesitated, then nodded solemnly.

"Good," Sylorik said, applying the hypospray with gentle precision. "There. I anticipate you will begin to feel better within twenty minutes. However, we will keep you overnight for observation. Your body requires time to react to the antiviral but that is expected."

"And then I can go home?" she pleaded delicately.

Sylorik replaced the hypospray on the tray and turned back to the child. Leaning closer to her, he observed a plush orange-furred canine the girl was clutching under her arm. "Who is your friend?" he inquired.

Without taking her eyes from the Vulcan physician, she smiled weakly. "Her name's Kurinka."

Sylorik nodded slowly and reached out to touch the toy. "She is... a very handsome dog."

The girl feigned insult. "She's not a dog," she protested, her little voice straining. "She's a Tellarite Water Wolf."

"Of course," said Sylorik. He paused for a moment, considering his words, then continued, "Our plush friends can be more powerful than medicine. Did you know that?"

She shook her head.

"When we are sick," he continued, "they provide us with healing energy to return our bodies to full health."

The girl looked to her parents questioningly, then back to Sylorik.

"What about when we're scared?"

Sylorik nodded. "They are protectors as well. I believe your Tellarite Water Wolf--"

"--Kurinka--"

"--Kurinka. I believe she will provide you with the healing energy required to help you feel better and to protect you while you recover here tonight."

The young girl poked at the orange-furred stuffed toy and smiled weakly. Then she wrapped her arms around it and hugged it tightly.

Sylorik stepped away and turned to the parents. "She has a strain of Rigelian tonsillitis. Common among children exposed to certain cross-species pathogens in mixed schools. It is treatable and rarely severe. She will return to her usual self by morning."

Relief flooded both parents' faces. The mother's eyes misted.

Sylorik gave a small, respectful nod and stepped away. As he exited the treatment bay, a younger physician--Doctor Orlen, a Bolian--met him just outside.

"You know," Orlen said, eyeing the closed curtain behind Sylorik. "You're better with patients than any Human or Bolian physician I've ever worked with."

Sylorik regarded him for a moment. "I have studied a range of bedside techniques. Efficiency and empathy are not mutually exclusive."

"That's one way to put it," Orlen chuckled.

Sylorik set about relaying the child's condition, treatment protocol, and updated file before offering a short "Good evening" and heading into the corridor. His duty shift was now finished.


* * *

Location: The Cellar Bar, Deck 10
Timeline: 1918 Hours

It was loud, but the kind of loud that buzzed with life rather than chaos.

Garo leaned back in his chair, a synthale in one hand, gesturing animatedly with the other. He had just finished a story involving a defective antimatter injector, a miscommunicated power transfer order, and three very confused senior officers. The table roared with laughter.

"I swear," Garo said, grinning. "Guy still thinks I stole his toolkit."

"You probably did," Echevarria shot back. "You collect those things like trophies."

Garo raised his drink in mock salute. "I'm a sentimental hoarder."

The group, mostly Ensigns and junior non-comms, passed around loaded plates of fried tubers and curried graincakes. The energy was easy, familiar--young officers enjoying the rare harmony of matching off-duty schedules.

One of the non-comms--a human named Lewis, from Operations--launched into a story about his department head from a previous assignment who was permitted to eat while on-duty and the hijinks which undoubtedly ensued.

"His toolkit was full of crumbs and I once found a half-sandwich stuck beneath the plasma torch," said Lewis with incredulity.

There was another roar of laughter from around the table.

Just then one of the engineers glanced toward the windowed promenade. "Isn't that the old Vulcan surgeon?"

Sylorik walked slowly, hands clasped behind his back, his pace unhurried.

Another crewmember smirked. "Looks like he's on a mission to disapprove of our off-duty activities."

"Maybe he's going to mind-meld with the bar."

Garo rolled his eyes but there was a smile behind it. "You'd be lucky if he gave you the time of day. He's twice the officer any of you could ever be."

That earned a few snickers. "Alright, alright," someone teased. "Don't get all defensive. What, are you and the Vulcan best friends now?"

"Actually, yes," Garo said, raising his glass. "Also, he doesn't talk much, so I get to be funny one by default."


* * *

Chief Petty Officer Vashti Rao stepped into The Cellar with the confident grace of someone who knew every inch of the room--and didn't give a damn who was watching. Her duty jacket hung loose around her shoulders, unzipped to reveal a plain black undershirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows. Her boots thudded softly on the scuffed decking as she moved toward the bar, flanked by Petty Officer 2nd Class Zal Rixi, a wiry Bajoran systems technician with a perpetual smirk, and Ensign Tenzi Sh'reyva, an athletic Andorian with a laugh like thunder.

The air was warm, thick with fried starch, synthale foam, and the churn of easy conversation. A low jazz fusion track meandered under the noise.

Vashti slid onto a barstool, stretching out her legs before addressing the bartender. "Three pints. Whatever's cold and not green."

Tenzi leaned on the counter beside her. "You're getting predictable, Chief."

"I'm getting efficient," Vashti replied, cracking her knuckles. "Green drinks are for people trying to prove something."

Rixi nudged her with an elbow, nodding toward the far corner of the bar. "Look who else crawled out of a Jefferies tube."

She didn't have to look. She'd felt it already, like a pressure drop behind her ribs.

Still, she turned--casually. Garo Hakobyan was across the room, perched at the edge of a crowded table like he belonged there, one hand wrapped around a drink, the other spinning a story that had everyone in stitches. His grin was loose and full of mischief. Even his voice carried over the din trailing into some punchline she did not catch--but probably heard before.

Garo was still in his duty uniform, the collar open just enough to look roguish. His dark eyes caught something in the crowd and sparkled.

Vashti turned back to her drink as it landed in front of her--the head spilling over the sides and onto the bar.

"You gonna say hi?" Tenzi asked, swirling her own concoction.

"Why would I?" Vashti said, without any inflection.

Rixi raised her eyebrows. "You're clearly in love with him."

Vashti snorted. "Bullshit. He's a pain in the ass."

"That pain in the ass definitely just looked over here," Rixi whispered behind the rim of her glass.

Vashti took a long sip of her drink, then wiped the foam from her lip with the hand of her hand. "Listen," she said. "He never shuts up. Always with the metaphors. Yesterday he compared a plasma injector to his cousin's second divorce."

Rixi leaned forward, intrigued. "And?"

"I didn't ask for details," she said, though she had absolutely asked for details at the time--and had laughed. Loudly.

Tenzi grinned. "He's funny."

"He thinks he's funny," said Vashti.

"You think he's funny," Rixi countered.

Vashti didn't respond but she could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. She just took another drink and stared at the row of half-polished glassware behind the bar, each one catching the soft ambient light like a miniature starship window. The quiet hum of the room buzzed behind her ears. Her shoulders felt tight. Too tight.

The thing about Garo wasn't just that he was charming--though he was, infuriatingly so. It was that he saw her. Saw through the sarcasm, through the bluster. And what was worse, he liked what he saw. He didn't want her softer, smaller, more polite. He liked her rough edges.

She hated that.

Well. No. She hated that it scared her.

Rixi followed her gaze. "You know he's looked over here three times."

Tenzi nodded. "Four, actually."

Vashti kept her face neutral. "Then I'd better scowl harder."

Rixi smirked. "Or smile once and ruin his entire evening."

A smile did try to sneak in. She strangled it with another sip.


* * *

Location: Promenade, Deck 10
Timeline: 1947 Hours


The late shift aboard the Elysium brought with it a certain hush. With duty rotations thinned and the last wave of children dismissed from the school, the promenade corridor had begun its nightly exhale--foot traffic slowed, lights dimmed to their evening hue, storefronts closing one by one with the soft beeps of autolocks and light fades.

Sylorik walked with his hands folded behind his back, the edges of his white uniform shifting gently with each step. His pace was unhurried but purposeful, like the rhythm of a mind already deep in reflective processing. The earlier medical case--a human child with an acute strain of Rigelian tonsillitis exacerbated by atmospheric adaptation stress--had required both procedural precision and a kind of communication not easily taught in textbooks. And yet, she had responded to him. Trusted him.

He carried that moment now like a still-warm ember in his chest.

He passed The Bean, where only a handful of crew remained, nursing half-finished drinks and murmuring over data PADDs. Beyond that, the school doors had already darkened for the evening. A security ensign nodded politely as she passed, and Sylorik acknowledged her with the faintest incline of his head.

Then he stopped.

The glow from a nearby storefront spilled onto the promenade like lamplight. Cosmic Confections. The name was etched in a hand-scripted font across a curved awning of soft periwinkle. Inside, shelves of modest pastries, artisan loaves, and a small rack of grain-free nutrition squares sat arranged with aesthetic care more than commercial drive. A faint scent of cardamom and sugar drifted past him.

Behind the counter, a human woman in her mid-forties was wiping down a display case. Her dark brown curls were pinned loosely at the nape of her neck and her cheeks carried a light sprinkle of dark freckles. She wore a calf-length cream-coloured dress protected by a white apron and a dusting of flour across the sleeves. She glanced up and paused, cloth in hand.

"Well," she said with a quiet smile. "I don't get many Vulcans stopping by this late. Or... ever."

Sylorik stepped closer, but did not enter. "I am not in the habit of consuming refined sugars. Most Vulcans consider them nutritionally irrelevant."

"Most humans consider dessert spiritually necessary," she said, folding the cloth. "But I'm guessing that's not a convincing argument."

"It is not without merit," he replied, after a beat. "However... during a previous visit to Earth, I was offered a raspberry danish. I found it... unexpectedly pleasing."

"Was it from Copenhagen or a Federation replicator?"

"New Jersey. A civilian medical center. The attending nurse had acquired them from a local vendor as part of a morale initiative."

"Good nurse." She stepped around the counter, unlocking a small glass cabinet near the entrance. "You've got good timing. I had a couple of fresh ones set aside for the morning--owner's orders. He believes no one's day should start without pastries. I believe in making sure he doesn't eat all of them himself."

She lifted a single danish from the case and placed it into a waxed paper envelope, then handed it over--not across the counter, but by walking to him at the doorway. The gesture was oddly intimate. Not flirtatious. Just thoughtful.

"I am not currently in need of caloric intake," he said, accepting the pastry with case. "But I will not allow it to go to waste."

"High praise from a Vulcan," she said with a light laugh.

"I am Sylorik."

"Talia. I'm just covering tonight's shift."

Talia wiped her hand on her apron and leaned a hip against the threshold. "So, what brings a doctor out here with no emergency team and no data PADD glued to his hand?"

Sylorik paused. "I recently concluded a pediatric treatment. The patient responded favourably. I wished to walk."

"Sometimes you need to let the day leave you slowly," she said.

"Indeed."

There was a quiet between them. Not awkward, but settled. He studied her face--not just features, but the relaxed alertness, the clarity of someone who wasn't striving to impress. She met his gaze and didn't turn away.

"I will return in the morning," Sylorik said finally. "If there are any left."

"For you, I'll put one aside. Just don't mention it to my boss Hans. I have a reputation for being impartial."

He gave her a shallow nod, then turned to leave, the warm envelope radiating heat up his arm. He walked on, slower now, though whether due to the lingering scent of raspberry and cardamom or something more abstract, even he could not say.

Behind him, Talia locked the front door, exhaled, and learned her head against the glass a moment before switching off the interior lights.


* * *

Back inside the bar, Vashti was halfway through her first drink. The buzz of conversation around her rose and fell in waves--laughter from one table, a burst of music from the bar's archaic jukebox system, then the clatter of a dropped cutlery set being greeted by a round of mock applause.

Her friends were deep in some technical discussion, but she wasn't listening. Her gaze kept drifting across the room--to the table of junior officers, to the olive-complected figure with the dark hair and twinkling eyes.

Garo.

He was laughing again. That same ridiculous smile. That stupid way he tapped his glass against the table in time with the music.

"Vashti?" prompted Tenzi.

"Hm?"

"You weren't even listening, were you?" chided Tenzi.

"I was," replied Vashti nonchalantly. "I was just distracted for a sec."

Rixi sighed. "I asked if we're still on for impulse manifold checks tomorrow."

"Of course we are," Vashti replied, tone clipped.

Tenzi raised a golden eyebrow. "And what time did I say we're doing them?"

Vashti hesitated.

"Gotcha," Rixi grinned, turning to Tenzi. "Pay up."

"You two bet on whether I was distracted?" Vashti asked.

"No," Tenzi said, sipping. "We bet on how much. Rixi said you were at maximum warp, I said you were cruising at a cool six-point-five."

"You were wrong," Rixi said smugly.

Vashti sighed and finally glanced--just briefly--across the bar. Garo was no longer at his table. Her stomach dipped.

"You're both ridiculous," she said, redirecting her attention to her drink.

"That's funny," Rixi said, nudging her shoulder with a knuckle. "Because that's exactly what you said the last time he walked by and you pretended to check the status of the ceiling panels."

"I was not--"

But she stopped. Because there he was again.

Garo Hakobyan emerged from the crowd near the back of the bar with that same confident shuffle and a glass tray balanced expertly in one hand. His hair was a bit messier than usual, his shirt rumpled like he'd tugged on it in a hurry.

He wasn't even looking in her direction. And somehow, that was worse.

"Uh oh," Tenzi whispered.

"Shut up," Vashti hissed.

He reached the bar, placing the tray down lightly before catching sight of them. His gaze flicked over Tenzi and Rixi with polite familiarity, then landed--briefly--on Vashti.

"Evening," he said, voice even.

"Ensign," Rixi said, tipping her glass in salute. "You look like someone who's just been roasted by a diagnostic readout."

"Just someone who's been managing engineers and technicians on third round of drinks. Different kind of calibration," he replied with his characteristic omission of certain determiners.

Tenzi chuckled. "Isn't that half your day job?"

"Three-quarters," he said. "Rest is inventing new metaphors for failing systems that Ops won't listen to."

"And you're so subtle about them," Rixi said with a grin. "Last week's 'warp-field-feels-like-my-uncle's-gout' was quite poetic."

"Appreciated," Garo replied dryly, then turned to Vashti.

She looked at him. Then away. Then back again, as if caught between three possible responses and unable to choose one in time.

"Chief," he said simply.

"Ensign," she replied, a touch too formal.

They both remained looking everywhere but at each other. Neither quite smiling. Neither quite scowling. Words lined up behind Vashti's lips like a parade that never started.

"So," Tenzi cut in, sensing the impasse. "How's your table holding up? I assume morale is high and tactical awareness is low."

"We're halfway through debate on whether Elysium's gravity calibration is responsible for bad dance moves," Garo said.

Rixi laughed. "You're the worst moderator."

"I know," he said, glancing at Vashti again. "Just came to refill. Didn't want to interrupt."

"You're not interrupting," Vashti said quickly. Too quickly.

Rixi's smile widened.

"I'll let you get back to it then," Garo said, lifting the tray again--now refilled drinks.

Vashti gave a tight nod. "Yeah. You should... yeah."

He hesitated, as if he had something else to say. But whatever it was, it didn't materialize.

"Good night, Chief," he said instead, and turned away.

She watched him walk back toward his table. This time, she didn't hide it.

There was a moment of silence between the three women before Tenzi broke it with a sigh and a sip.

"You two are hopeless."

"He's the one who ran off," Vashti muttered.

"Because you looked like you were going to shiv him or bolt," Rixi said. "You didn't even blink."

"I blinked plenty."

"Sure. Once. With the speed of a glitching impulse governor."

Vashti groaned and dropped her forehead to the bar with a gentle thud.

From across the room, Garo had returned to his seat, tray unloaded. Echevarria leaned in.

"You talk to her?"

He didn't look up. "Talked at her."

"That's something."

Garo just stared into his drink and mumbled, "Warp core would've been easier."


* * *