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He makes a beeline for the bench as soon as he's on board the shuttle.
The dusty, oppressive heat of the planet gives way to sterile climate-controlled interior of a Starfleet vessel.
There's a part of him that wants to look back outside, to see her, hopefully, still standing there, waiting for the shuttle to take off. Another part of him thinks that Mariner would have left by now, off to somewhere more thrilling, like the Klingon fast food stall he had passed on the way, or an Orion opium den, or a Ferengi casino–
Stop it.
He sets down his halfway unzipped duffel and reaches for the picture – her parting gift – as a drowning man would for a life ring. Staring at the bridge crew, he sees the one person that's not even there.
It is such a Mariner picture, too. Taken just before everyone got into position, it captures the crew's little quirks all too well.
The shuttle doors snap to a close.
Boimler glances around the nearly empty vessel, startled.
— There's my straggler — the pilot approaches him. — Lieutenant... Boimler? — she reads off her padd.
He nods, too afraid that his voice would betray his emotions.
The other officer takes a second to look him over, then rests her wrist on her hip.
— First ship-to-ship transfer, huh.
It's more of a statement than a question, but he nods mutely in response anyway.
— Listen, uh, Boimler. It will be fifteen minutes till we dock with the big dog. I am going to be all the way over there — his eyes follow her left arm, extended toward the front of the shuttle.
— Whatever you've got boiling inside of you, Boimler, now's the time to let the steam out.
He lets the picture drop from his hand and into the duffel bag as he listens to her steps fade away.
There's a sharp pang in his chest, and then his insides clench and twist. His breath quickens. He knows what's coming next, so he closes his eyes, just as the shuttle breaks away from the ground.
Here we go.
Two big hot tears stream down across his cheeks. He bites at his lip at first, but then lets the sob out, burying his head in his palms.
I miss her.
I miss the ship.
I miss her.
He rocks to the rhythm of his internal monologue like it's a lullaby.
Fifteen minutes later the shuttle lands. Mercifully, his cheeks are dry by the time the pilot steps toward him.
She takes in his red-rimmed eyes.
— Alright, Boimler. — She presses the panel to open shuttle doors. — It's showtime.
He follows her down the incline, his eyes fixed to the ground.
— Took your sweet-ass time flying over here — comes a gruff voice, tinged with irritation — didn't you, Laurel?
That must be his orientation officer, then.
— Shut up, Hardy — comes the pilot's quick rejoinder. — At least I know how to fly. You're relieved. Run along now, I'll take care of showing Boimler to his new quarters.
Hardy marches away with a huff. The pilot – Laurel – glances at the padd he had left behind. She gives a low whistle.
— Deck seven, lucky you. Come on, Boimler.
She motions for him to follow with a lazy flick of the wrist, and the shuttle bay doors whoosh closed behind them.
* * *
One week later Boimler sets up the padd on his desk and makes the call.
Her shoulders are bare and she's holding up a fluffy towel, looking like she's just gotten out of the shower.
— Is-is this a bad time?
— What? Oh, nah — she dismisses the idea with a wave. — As good a time as any.
He takes a deep breath then, deciding at the very last second to let it all out, finally.
— I've missed you.
There's a beat, and he dares not to breathe. A range of expressions – confusion, suspicion, mirth, understanding – passes through Mariner's face before she replies.
— I've missed you too, Boims.
It's a start.