Chapter Text
Hamlet had always wanted to give someone a tour of a high school canteen – you know the one: gesturing to the various cliques sitting neatly at separate tables as they're doing something stereotypical; indicating who to avoid and who is socially acceptable to be seen with; maybe answering a horny "who's that?" or two – and all things considered, Starfleet ships are fairly frequently exactly like high school, so he's pretty stoked when the new guy shows up.
Apparently he'll be tagging along for three months from Vektar to Blackdog, seemingly on a professional whim. It had caused quite a stir among the crew because it been so long since there'd been a fresh face (or as Fort said, "fresh meat"). Quite a few people had volunteered to take him as their shadow, but Hamlet won under the premise that he was the highest-ranking officer who had nothing better to do.
Incidentally, his broken arm in its stiff blue cast is no good for gesturing to cliques, but he's trying to stay positive.
✧
They meet outside commons 4, which Hamlet had insisted upon because he had always thought it rather rude to dive into greetings the second the person transports aboard a ship. (Give them a second to collect themselves at least.) He leans against the wall of the corridor and starts to hum as he watches people go past in varying degrees of urgency.
He's got some opera in his head he can't place. In a moment of uncharacteristic inspiration, he flicks the purple switch a few feet along the wall. "Computer, identify this song." Several ensigns pass by during his rendition with rock-hard expressions that are too blank to not be hiding something else, but Hamlet just waves to them cheerily because of all the reputations, mad isn't the worst of them.
"Symphony Errata by T'sar, composed 22nd Century."
"Vulcan opera?" Hamlet exclaims. "I didn't know they had it. I wonder where on Earth I heard it."
"T'sar has not been introduced to Earth," the computer replies like a smart-ass.
Hamlet rolls his eyes. "Well that's a shame. I'll have to remedy that someday."
He realises a couple of people nearby are staring at him, so he clears his throat, says, "Thank you, computer," because manners maketh spaceman, and resumes his leaning on the wall.
The two people don't move on; by the time they've started coming towards him, Hamlet realises with horror they must be the new guest and his envoy.
"Doctor?" he greets the older one in assumption, which of course turns out to be wrong within nanoseconds because the guy is in Starfleet civs. He turns to the other and tries not to look surprised at how young he is. Lots of the crew are young, he reminds himself: the Academy is particularly appealing to child prodigies. Hamlet’s pretty damn young.
"Horatio," he introduces himself.
"Wonderful to meet you," Hamlet says, which after the fact he realises sounds incredibly sarcastic and is probably why when the Doctor – Horatio – forces a smile, it's more like a grimace.
The envoy nods once and dismisses himself. Hamlet watches him go with a suddenly sinking heart, already regretting agreeing to this. This Horatio is friends with the Captain – what if he's horribly boring and up himself?
"How do you like the Helsingør?" he asks as he indicates Horatio to go first into the commons.
"It's much bigger than I expected," he replies. "I don't have much experience with starships."
"Exploration vessels usually are about this size, to stave off the cabin fever."
"I hadn't considered it."
He's very formal, even for an academic. Hamlet had been told he's a high-ranking scholar on Vektar and a member of the council's circle, all the more impressive because he's Terran. He is said to be on the hunt for some rare documents across the Quadrant, which sounded a bit below his paygrade but who is Hamlet to judge? Just look at him right now.
"Your mission is three years, yes?" Horatio is asking.
"One year five months now," Hamlet nods, and then smiles. "We're just getting to the interesting part."
Commons 4 is relatively empty, to his disappointment. He'll save his Teen Movie routine for one of the upper decks.
"This deck is mainly recreation and quarters, but there are hangars on the starboard side, of course. These are the commons nearest your room. Replicator, bar, social entertainments." They back out again and start along the eastbound corridor. "Library, also used for quiet commons. Over there's the Science Garden, very nice but under decontamination at the moment. I'm sure you can go in later if you like; sometimes I eat in there to get away from everyone."
Horatio takes all this in quietly. Hamlet would think it's mere polite disinterest but something about his eyes makes him seem alert, anxious for knowledge, to know what's going on. Maybe he's just tired and it's making him jumpy.
"Did you want to see your room on the way?" Hamlet suggests. He’s holding a small carry-on so it could go either way whether he's already unpacked.
Horatio nods agreeably, so Hamlet takes him down to where the guest quarters are located. They're quite a lot nicer than standard, which the crew all resent, as they do all of Polonius' decisions, but this one gets special recognition resentment because it was his inaugural mistake. There are only two other guests onboard, so Hamlet taps the pad next to the third suite door and waves Horatio to the threshold, which scans him and locks in his ID.
“Crew gets fingerprint scanners but we can’t keep guests’ prints on record so it’s the door, I’m afraid. You can set them up for other people if you like, I can show you later.”
He seems pleased with the decor, perhaps also surprised by the size. Guests get double beds too. Score.
He places his meagre bag on the little table and turns in a circle to assess it all. Then he turns to Hamlet and smiles warmly.
"This is lovely. Thank you."
Hamlet shrugs. "I can... we can resume the tour later if you'd like? No one talks about how draining dissolving into atoms and reforming instantaneously can be."
Horatio smiles again but brushes it off. "I like to get my bearings."
"Of course. Shall we?" He hadn't really anticipated that he'd have to be polite to the new guy; he's spent so long on the bridge that even having runners unironically call him 'sir' is weird. Horatio shouldn't get used to it if he knows what's good for him.
They take a lift to the deck above and Hamlet shows him the various gyms, and then the medbay. Fort is in, so Hamlet gets in a little heckling, which Fort gets him back for by dramatically returning a bookchip Hamlet had left in one of the drawers.
"Sci fi?" Fort mocks him. "Didn't know you were twelve. Oh wait, I did."
Hamlet makes a face at him, forgetting for a second he's meant to be an officer – no, not meant to be, he fucking is. He tucks the chip into his pocket and ushers Horatio out, babbling, "Sorry about that, the good doctor and I have spent too much time together of late." He raises his cast to illustrate his point, although perhaps it comes across that Fort had been doing the breaking of the arm rather than the fixing, because Horatio looks alarmed. "He's an excellent physician," Hamlet insists. "But don't be afraid to tell him to shut up."
"I'll keep it in mind," Horatio says. "So, er... sci fi?"
Hamlet can feel the heat rising to his cheeks. Reading sci fi – or god forbid, watching sci fi – was these days so unfashionable it had become embarrassing, and was Hamlet's most guilty secret. It’s considered at best nonsense kids’ fantasy, and at worst just straight up garbage pulled from where the suns don’t shine. Most sci fi authors used pseudonyms so they wouldn’t taint their careers. Most readers read it in secret, like they’re having an affair behind literary fiction’s back.
But Hamlet loves it. Most of it’s complete trash, of course, just gibberish from decades before scientific advancement even began. In honesty, the inaccuracy is what makes it so interesting to him. People genuinely thought these things at some point: even the stuff written just a hundred years ago was so off-base it’s amazing. The world, and then the universe, moved so fast it rendered science from within a lifetime obsolete. Hamlet’s always been a nerd for science, and sci fi sort of acts as a showcase to (mostly human) stupidity and ever-learning. It’s just unbounded, self-indulgent creativity.
He'd written his very first thesis on early science fiction, and the special interest had never quite left him. Which would've been fine if he hadn't started reading all his old favourites during his deathly boring days in the medbay to cheer himself up.
Hamlet didn't know quite how to relay all that concisely to Horatio. In the end he just shrugs. "It was a very extended stay."
Horatio pauses. "May I ask what happened?"
He'd expected it sooner or later; the envoy or the Captain or someone surely would have told him Hamlet's job, and by all logic he should be doing it right now. Plus: his appearance.
Hamlet sighs, and then smiles in the way he’d practised. "Landing party gone wrong," he says. "Crashed on a moon trying to navigate through an ice ring."
"Oh."
"Thirty seconds ended in three weeks in Intensive. Very messy breaks in two limbs, some ribs cracked, lung complications, one hell of a concussion. I got off easy though." He resolutely doesn’t think about Mason.
Luckily, Horatio doesn't ask what he means by that and they continue walking towards the elevator.
"And they can't really drop me off anywhere to recuperate without leaving me behind," he tries to steer back into lighter territory. "So here I am, mid-mission, useless." (It doesn’t exactly work.)
"I appreciate your help," Horatio says, as if to reassure him. It's rather sweet, and it's in this particular moment that Hamlet realises he likes the guy.
He waves him off. "It's my pleasure, Doctor."
✧
"Over there's the science officers," Hamlet starts off, newly-abuzz with being able to tick this off his teenage bucket-list. Finally, finally, they'd reached an adequate commons, and Hamlet was practically vibrating with excitement. It's every underdog's dream!
He thinks Horatio has noticed and is humouring him with the right questions.
"Why aren't they talking to each other?"
"Oh, they are – their pads are connected by a localised network, so they can all be reading the same paper and discussing it right there. Like, um, letters. Texts." Horatio hums, impressed. "They tend to keep to themselves. They feel underutilized."
This, Horatio finds amusing for some reason. He's a lot more relaxed than he was even a quarter of an hour ago, and they're both starting to enjoy themselves.
Hamlet continues, "Then Security. They feel overutilized." Horatio laughs. "You can always find a swarm of them in the gyms. Always good to have in your corner. Good at cards, too." The Jocks. A couple of them are even arm wrestling as he speaks, which Hamlet is pleased about.
He nods towards the far corner and lowers his voice dramatically. "That's the group, if any, it's worth avoiding. They're the Seevies, only here as a means to an end, the end being military ships mainly. They think they're better than the rest of us, the ones here for exploration and experience. They're just using this mission to climb some other ladder. Not very friendly, either."
Horatio hums again, this time unimpressed. Three of the Seevies are laughing together, and it raises Hamlet's proverbial Ganglia instinctively. They remind him all too much of the Academy sometimes.
The next table holds some shy crewmembers; the next, a crowd of gossiping mini-Polonii; the next, in the centre of the room, is a lone Claudius eating stew.
"Who's that?" Horatio asks, and Hamlet let's himself tick that off his bingo even though it was decidedly not a question borne of sexual interest.
"That's Claudius, the new Chief Engineer. Bit of a bastard if you ask me, which in the eyes and ears of the Captain you didn't. Hasn't made much effort to make friends, which he should've, considering."
"Considering?"
Hamlet curses himself for saying that last part out loud, because now he has to talk about it. He wonders if this is the first time he's mentioned it to an outsider.
"Our old Chief died suddenly two months ago," he explains. "He was a really good guy, everyone loved him. So Claudius makes for a cheap imitation."
Horatio makes a sympathetic face but seems to be waiting, like he can tell there's more to it. When it's obvious Hamlet is unwilling to explain further, he says tentatively, "I'll keep out of his way then."
"Do." Hamlet agrees. He realises they've been staring at him and swivels himself around to the final corner of the room, although the mood has sort of left him. "They're. They're the junior officers. Very excitable. We're too slow for them, I think. Definitely too into naps."
Horatio touches his arm and startles him; he still looks sympathetic. "Shall we do the rest later?"
Hamlet sighs. "No, it's okay. Really. It's just the top deck left now, then I can leave you with the Captain."
✧
The moment they arrive on the bridge he immediately feels better. He really fucking misses work at this point – it had been nice to get away from everything for a while, but now he's just waiting for his damn concussion to get the clear, and his arm to slow-heal. Otherwise he's raring to go, and really, really bored.
"Here's where all the cool people are," he whispers to Horatio, and Horatio has to stifle a laugh because the Captain has turned in her seat and is greeting him.
"Horatio!" she exclaims as she stands. It's the warmest he's ever heard her, and Hamlet is struck by the idea that this is probably what she's always like in her downtime: they just never get to see. Hamlet steps back as they go to shake hands. "How are you? Good journey? Hamlet been treating you well?"
"Life, the transporters and your Helmsman have been treating me very well, Gertrude," he laughs, instantly seeming more relaxed. This kind of depresses Hamlet, because he thought he'd been doing a good job.
"Excellent! My, it's good to see you. How long has it been?"
Hamlet leaves them to it and drifts over to Rosencrantz's corner. He's talking to someone through his earpiece (one of the Klingon languages?) and signs for Hamlet to piss off, but of course he doesn't and peers into the screens faux-pensively. He pretends to reach for a button and hears Rosencrantz speed up his talking rapidly as he bats him away, and by Hamlet’s third attempt he's hung up and is rolling his chair around to block Hamlet out, saying, "I have not missed you one bit." Which means he had.
Hamlet smiles sweetly back and leans on the controls.
"Don't sit there!" Rosencrantz hisses.
"What harm can it do, it's only Comms," Hamlet replies, and dodges the subsequent hit.
"Is that what’s-his-name? Napoleon?" he asks under his breath.
"Horatio, yeah."
"He nice?"
"He is, actually."
"Good. I'd hate to hate him. Too busy already on that front," he drawls, aiming a glare at Hamlet.
"C'mon, drop the act. For my ego. I bet you're bored too."
Rosencrantz pauses, then concedes, "It's been a little duller. But there have been fewer stupid mistakes."
"Oh, I doubt that," Hamlet scoffs. He raises his voice and calls over to the Helm, "You remember to take the handbrake off, Guil?"
Guildenstern calls back without looking up, "Piss off, Hamlet."
"Yes, piss off, Hamlet."
He pouts. "What am I gonna do then? Law of the excluded middle; where am I meant to piss?"
Gertrude calls him over before either of them can start comprehending what that even means.
"Thank you for looking after him," she says, and Horatio looks embarrassed at that, because it's like he's her child. Which, with their ages, he probably could be, but for the species difference.
"It was good to have something to do," Hamlet answers pointedly.
"Ah, yes. Well, you'll be back within a fortnight so keep your hopes up." He rather likes her when she's in a good mood. "Now, unless there's something else you wanted to do you're dismissed." Never mind.
He tries not to take it personally.
"I could introduce the Doctor to the bridge crew?" he suggests feebly.
"Oh, don't worry, I'll take care of that. You go and rest."
I've spent a month resting, he doesn't say.
"Thank you, sir," he says instead, and turns. "I'll see you at dinner, Guil."
Then he trudges back to the elevator and goes to lie down, intending to spitefully read the bookchip from the medbay for the rest of the afternoon like anyone would know.