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They’re sitting at the bar, several days after her mother’s arrest, as the ship hurtles through space towards drydock.
“Orion,” Tendi is saying. “I haven’t been there since – well, since Starfleet.”
Mariner thinks they’re talking about where they’ll go when they’re grounded, but she hasn’t really been listening. She hasn’t really been listening for days.
“I’ll be here,” Rutherford says, “on the skeleton crew. It’ll be something to do, I guess.”
She knows that she should try to engage a little better, knows that this might be the last time in a long time that she’ll get to see them. Maybe that’s part of it. She’s already lost one person. It’s easier to just create the distance now.
“Something something about my parent’s stupid vineyard,” Boimler says. Okay, maybe those aren’t his exact words, but, again, Mariner’s not really listening.
And it’s not like, with everything that’s happened, anyone can really blame her. Mariner had never thought she’d have an opportunity to play the “my mom who is also my captain just got arrested in front of me” card, but it’s really been coming in clutch these past few days. At least as a means of avoiding talking about it.
“Uh, Cerritos to Mariner?”
Mariner blinks, and is suddenly aware that all three of them are looking at her expectantly, like they’re waiting for her to say her piece. “What?”
“I asked if you’re going home,” Tendi says, “while we’re grounded.” Her voice, as is has been for the past several days, is dripping with sympathy, which kind of makes Mariner want to strangle her.
“Oh,” Mariner says. “Uh, actually, I don’t really have anywhere to go.”
She cringes as soon as the words have left her mouth. It’s not that it isn’t true; when you grow being bumped around from starship to starship, you never really get to call anywhere home, even less so when the person who raised you on those starships has now been publicly shamed and falsely imprisoned. But she hadn’t meant it to sound so fucking pitiful, especially now that the three of them are staring at her like she’s an injured targ puppy about to be honorably put down.
“It’s fine,” she says quickly, if only to get them to stop looking at her like that. “Starfleet booked me a hotel.”
Tendi shifts her gaze from Mariner and gives Boimler a very pointed look, and he shoots her a very strained look back.
Mariner’s eyes flit between them, though she can’t be bothered to call them out on it. People have been exchanging glances in front of her for days, eyes following her down the hallway, conversations ceasing just as she walks by. It’s like when everyone had found out she was the captain’s daughter, except instead of sucking up to her, they’re treating her like treason is contagious. Which is honestly better; it means she doesn’t have to talk to anyone. “Seriously,” she says. “You know me, I’m better off on my own anyway.”
The words seem to hang in the air for a moment. Then there’s a slight commotion under the table, and Boimler winces like he’s been kicked, then nods abruptly.
“Well,” Tendi says loudly. “Look at the time ” – she glances at her wrist, which definitely does not have a watch on it – “I’ve gotta go. Mariner, I love you, comefindmeifyouneedanything!”
There’s about a nanosecond of silence, then some more shifting under the table, and this time it’s Rutherford who winces. “Me too,” he says quickly, jumping to his feet. “I also have to be, uh, not here.”
They both look at Mariner expectantly, as if they’re worried she’ll blow up at them if they move, which, to be fair, she’s done several times in the past few days. Or maybe they’re worried that she’ll shatter, which is worse.
She glares at them, then glances over at Boimler, who suddenly seems to be extremely interested in his coaster. With a sigh, Mariner nods dully, and Tendi and Rutherford scamper out of the mess hall, leaving her wondering, not for the first time, whether Starfleet might benefit from introducing a “pretense” course at the Academy.
She shifts her attention back to her drink.
“So,” Boimler says, after several minutes, “uh, what hotel?”
Mariner swishes the dregs of whiskey around in her glass, watching the way the liquid shimmers under the fluorescent lights. “Don’t know yet.”
“What city?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“What continent?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“What – “
She slams her glass down on the countertop, shattering a stray shard of ice. “Do you have an actual question for me?”
Boimler deflates a little, and takes another swig from his glass.
“Well,” he says.
She waits, but he seems to have decided he’s content leaving it at that. “Well what?”
“Well,” he says again, squeezing his eyes shut, “I was just thinking, you could, uh – you could come stay with me. At the vineyard. If you want to.”
“Oh.” Mariner turns back towards the bar, trying fight the warmth threatening to spread into her cheeks. She vaguely considers coming up with a half-baked excuse to run away, silently cursing Tendi for having pulled that move already.
Luckily, she doesn’t have to, because Boimler rambles on. “It’s actually a really nice place. The weather’s pretty good in Modesto this time of year. And we’ve got plenty of space, you could have your own guest room and everything. I mean, obviously you’d have your own room. It’s not like you’d stay in my – but, uh, anyway, only if you want to“ – he trails off awkwardly – “And, uh, I know my mom would love to meet you.”
“Right,” Mariner says, “because what I really want to do right now is hang out with someone else’s mom.”
Once again, her tone betrays her, and the words come out much more biting than she’d meant them to. Boimler visibly cringes, which makes her want to hug him and punch him, simultaneously.
“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t– “
“It’s fine,” she says quickly, setting her glass down and patting him lightly on the back of his hand. He still looks sorry, and she’s really fucking tired of people looking at her like that, so she lets her shoulders relax and tries to will away the bitterness that’s been clawing at her throat. “So, you’ve been telling your mom about me, huh?”
Boimler flushes. “I, uh – no, I mean – well, yeah. You’re my friend.”
“I hope your mom’s the type to bring out the photo album and show me all your ugly baby pictures.”
This gets at least a small grin out of him, and he crosses his arms. “I’ll have you know I was a very photogenic baby.”
“Fine,” she says, “Awkward teen yearbook photos, then. I know for a fact you had weird Vulcan bangs one year.”
Boimler goes a little bit redder. “How could you possibly –“ She flashes him a smirk. “Okay, you know what?” he says, “Invite rescinded.”
Mariner leans back in her seat, tilting the stool precariously on its hind legs. “That was easy. Tell your mom I said hi.”
“Actually, I think she’d murder me if I didn’t bring you home.”
“Oh, I see,” Mariner says. “So if I came, I’d actually be doing you a favor.”
“Something like that.”
She takes another swig of whiskey, savoring both the taste and the thought as Brad watches her expectantly.
There’s a million reasons why it’s not a good idea.
It’s not a good idea because she had almost been counting on that hotel, counting on having a room to herself for once in her life, somewhere she could finally scream and sob and try to process this without anybody there to see her break.
It’s not a good idea because she’s already dealing with enough feelings right now, thank you very much, and staying in some idyllic sun-soaked villa with Bradward Boimler would definitely add some more on top of that, ones she really can’t deal with right now, or maybe ever.
And it’s not a good idea because Mariner really isn’t sure she’s in the right mental state to be anywhere where wine literally grows on trees. (Okay, maybe she doesn’t actually know how grape farming works. Sue her.)
It’s probably closer to a bad idea. But then, when has that ever stopped her before?
“Yeah,” she says eventually, mulling the words over on her tongue. “Okay.”
Boimler blinks, and the hope in his eyes makes her heart do a somersault. “Really?”
“Yeah, well, my mom’s already falsely imprisoned, I don’t need my best friend getting murdered, too.”
Boimler rolls his eyes. “Try living with me for a week and maybe you’ll be the one to murder me.”
“You’ve got a deal,” Mariner says. She pauses, but the next thought escapes her mouth before she can stop herself. “Hey, this isn’t just a pity invite, is it?”
Boimler feigns a shrug. “I mean, it’s a little bit of a pity invite.”
She raises up a hand to smack him, and he grins, throwing up his own hands in a defensive position. “But,” he says, “I want you to come. Really.”
Mariner lets her hand fall back to her side, and has to bite her tongue to keeping herself from smiling. She turns back to her whiskey, and drains the rest of it. Then she grabs Boimler’s glass, and drains that too. “All right, then.”
He only nods, so she shoves both glasses forward on the counter and stands up to leave – in part because she definitely can’t handle sitting here with her feelings like some kind of emotionally-healthy weirdo, and in part because she has the strangest sense that Tendi’s right outside the door awaiting an update – but Boimler reaches out a hand to stop her.
“And Beckett?”
She looks up at him, heart skipping against her will as he meets her gaze.
"We’ll get your mom out,” he says. “Together. You won’t have to do this alone."
Against her better judgement, Mariner takes his outstretched hand and links her own around it, skin prickling at the contact. For a moment, Boimler stiffens, but then he smiles, warmly, and squeezes her hand back.
"Yeah," Mariner whispers. "I know."