Chapter Text
In space, no one can hear you sing.
One of your teachers at the conservatoire told you that, years ago, and somehow it stuck with you, along with how to use your stomach muscles to support your breath, and what to picture in your mind as you reach for a high note.
You never questioned her about why she said it; you don’t know if she thought space travel could be bad for your voice, or whether she thought Earth music belonged on Earth. But either way, you’ve only sung off-world a couple of times.
Work on Earth has been plentiful, though, so you never had a reason to think about it. You’ve been all over the planet: Europe, Asia, a stint at the Sydney Opera House which was magical… And you like this gig, a few more weeks in a theatre in your current home city of San Francisco, a lot. It’s where the Federation brass bring dignitaries to give them a flavour of human music, and you’ve sung for admirals, ambassadors, members of the Federation council, even the president.
Your numbers aren’t until the second half, so before the show you can mingle with the audience. And recently you’ve found yourself wondering. Feeling a little restless. Pretending to yourself you’re on a starbase somewhere, or maybe Kasseelia, at one of the opera houses.
Maybe one day, when the right opportunity comes up, you’ll perform off Earth again.
For all of your thinking about space, you have to appreciate the historic building that you get to perform in on Earth. The crystal chandeliers that cast a soft warm glow and the polished wood panelling aren’t actually hundreds of years old, but they’re a re-creation of the theatre’s original design. You wonder what it would have been like, when you couldn’t get on a starship to go to another world. When a place like this might have been your only escape from a mundane life on Earth.
There are a lot of Starfleet uniforms in the foyer this evening among the suits, dresses and alien robes; even more than usual. Some are the older style navy blue, but a lot of the newer, more colourful uniforms are dotted about the crowd. Reds, blues and golds. There are aliens of a species you’ve never seen before too, taller than humans with a sparkling stone which may be jewellery in the middle of their foreheads. You smile to yourself as you push your way toward the stairs, taking care, as you always do, that no one steps on your dress. There’s something about getting to witness the crowd, and their sense of anticipation.
Your other pre-show ritual is going up to the circle level bar for a drink. You pause at the turn in the stairs for one last look at the crowd before you perform to them later, then head the rest of the way up.
It’s quieter up here. You’ve noticed during the season that the bars on the ground floor are more popular pre-show, and patrons tend not to come upstairs as much until right before the performance starts. There are a few people at tables, but no one right at the bar. It’s as picturesque as the rest of the theatre, with walls covered with vintage posters advertising operas, plays and musicals that were staged here in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.
You slide onto your stool, beneath the black and white girl on the poster of Les Misérables.
“The usual?”
“Hey, S’nera, yes please.” You smile at the Caitian bartender, ginger fur glossy under the bar’s spotlights, who already has a highball glass in hand.
“Let’s make that two,” a deep voice says, and you and S’nera share a doubtful look before you turn to see who’s spoken.
“All right,” she says, and you hear ‘your funeral’, but you forget that as you look at the stranger sitting down next to you, and your breath catches just a little. He is handsome, with a square jaw, mouth pulled into a small smile, perfectly styled greying hair and blue eyes, made bluer by the green wrap-around top he wears. He has a Starfleet badge so must be an officer, but that’s not a uniform colour you recognise. He wears it well, though. And it does nothing to hide his broad shoulders and muscled arms.
You’re jolted out of your admiration by the sound of the glasses hitting the bar, and you turn to pick one up.
“Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass with yours, and you both take a sip. His confident expression falters. “Room temperature pineapple juice? Really?”
“It’s what I always drink.” You shrug, grinning. “First time anyone’s joined me, though.” You take another sip, the fruity flavour soothing you as it always does.
“Well, guess I walked into that one. Figures, the day I’m having. I hate these things.” He gestures, somehow encompassing the whole theatre, and sighs, and you have to stop yourself watching his mouth on the glass when he takes a drink.
“You hate concerts? Music?”
“I’m not sure the music will really be my thing, but... it’s the having to be here to see and be seen. Being here because of who I am and what I represent. It feels... inauthentic. If—” He pauses. “I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to complain about my troubles to you.”
“No, that’s all right. Sometimes we just need someone to hear us.” You tilt your head. “Let me get you a proper drink. S’nera?” You reach over and take the glass from his hands, your fingers accidentally-on-purpose brushing against his. You clock his eyes widening just a fraction. “I’m putting it on my tab. What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey on the rocks. But won’t you join me?”
You shake your head – alcohol is bad for your voice, pre-performance, and so is ice. “I’m good. Perhaps later, though? After the show?”
“I hope so.” S’nera places his new drink on the bar, and he picks it up and raises it to you.
“So what brings you here, officer?” You ask. “I’m guessing work, but your uniform, I—”
“Chris, there you are. I knew I’d find you hiding out somewhere. Finish that, and come back with me.” The newcomer is also wearing a Starfleet uniform, dark blue with elaborate gold epaulets and badge. His dark eyes are equal parts amused and frustrated, and you’d bet he’s Chris’ superior. “I had to leave Sarah on her own with two of our guests; I’m hoping there won’t be a diplomatic incident by the time we get back.”
“Admiral, I—”
“Good evening and welcome. If you wish to take your seat for tonight’s performance, the auditorium is now open. May I please remind guests—”
You look at the antique clock above the bar. Somehow it’s already 7:15pm, and even though it’s much too early for your call, people start getting antsy if you’re not in your dressing room before the show starts. You step down off your stool, and pat Chris’ shoulder.
“I’ve got to get going now too. It was nice to meet you, Chris. Hope the show’s not as bad as you think.” You nod to the admiral on your way past, and smile at Chris, now standing, as you leave the bar.
“Anyone interesting out there tonight?” the principal ’cellist asks you as you pass her in the narrow corridor backstage, making sure to give her cello as wide a berth as possible.
“Mostly the usual, but there’s a diplomatic party. Some folks the Starfleet brass want to impress.”
“They came to the right place. We’re gonna blow them away.” Ayre, the tenor soloist, looking smart in a dark gold suit which sets off their golden-brown skin and close-cropped bleached gold curls gives a smug grin as they emerge from the door next to yours. “You coming out for drinks after?”
You open your mouth to reply, but an image of Chris floats in front of your eyes, and how you said you might meet him later. But you’ll never be able to find him—
“Hesitation is not like you.” Ayre’s expression turns suspicious. “Did you have other plans? Did you meet someone?”
You shrug. “Kind of? But no. No plans. Drinks sound great. And if I’m remembering right, you owe me, from—”
They laugh. “Yeah yeah, whatever.”
“Performers this is your five-minute call. Beginners, please stand by.”
“Break a leg,” you wave as you open the door to your dressing room.
Inside you flip on the humidifier, check your appearance and read for a bit before you start your warm-ups. At least your routine is well established, so it doesn’t matter if you can’t quite put a handsome Starfleet officer completely out of mind...
The thing you love about singing is that it’s just you. There’s nothing standing between the music and your audience; it’s your artistry, your emotion, your soul, direct from you to them. There are no instruments to get in the way, no keys to get stiff, no strings to break.
That’s not to say you don’t have to take care of your voice. You were tired and run down at the end of a semester at the conservatoire in your first year and you overdid it. You spent that entire summer resting, and praying that the doctors were right, and that your voice would come back by itself.
But as you step out onto the stage, hear the strings play that first soft chord, there’s only you, the audience, and the direct connection between you.
That’s part of why you like to mingle with the crowd before the show. The house lights are down and the stage lights are bright so you can’t make out anyone clearly, but you can picture who you’re singing for. You can see the faces, in your mind’s eye, of the regulars who you’ve seen at multiple performances. The aliens who you’d never seen before today. The Starfleet officers, including that admiral. And Chris.
You take a deep breath, and sing.
Another nice thing about being a singer is after your warm down, which only takes a few minutes, you’re done. You don’t have to drag your instrument in a case along with you if you go out, or stress about whether you’ve left it somewhere safe. And, while this run is going on, you can keep your fancy dresses at the theatre.
As quick as you are to leave your dressing room, Ayre is quicker.
“Leda said you were special tonight, you know.” They say as you fall into step with them.
“Wait really?” Leda is director of music at the theatre, among other things, and her good opinion matters.
“Of course really. I might get jealous. I’m supposed to be her favourite.”
You laugh. “Only because you dedicated Nessun Dorma to her that one time—”
“Shush. Piacere for drinks?”
“Sure.”
By the time you make it to the stage door there’s a good size group of your friends heading to the bar, and you’re looking forward to a couple of drinks before turning in.
But as you exit the theatre, stepping out into the fresh evening air, Chris is there. He catches your eye and tilts his head, a small, sheepish smile on his face, and time almost stands still for a second as you stare back at him.
Ayre nudges your shoulder, speaking in an undertone. “Guess you’re not coming after all? Make good choices, babe. “And they somehow manage to herd everyone else away before you can react.
“Hi,” you say, suddenly feeling a little nervous, a little exposed. “You enjoy the show?”
“I did. You were—” he shakes his head a little. “You were sublime, and I... I owe you an apology. I said a few things back there that were… ill-considered.”
“All you said was you didn’t expect you’d enjoy the music.” You shrug. “And that’s fair – not everything is for everyone. Mostly you seemed unhappy about your situation, not the concert. So no apology necessary. But… if you really want to apologise, you can buy me a drink?” You take a step towards him, smiling. “After a performance I can even have ice.”
“It’s the least I can do.” He grins as he offers you his arm. “So why do you drink warm pineapple juice before shows?”
“It’s a placebo, really. But I like the taste and it doesn’t do any harm, so I grab one pre-show while I’m sizing up the audience. Really you have to keep yourself hydrated all the time. And humid atmospheres help.”
You finger his jacket with your free hand. “My turn: why haven’t I seen a green Starfleet uniform before now?”
Conversation flows easily as you walk, and he’s happy to let you steer him to one of your favourite bars. It’s a bit of a hidden gem – by the bay, small but not crowded, and sleek and modern, unlike the theatre.
You like it because you can see out across the water as you sit with your drinks, to the Golden Gate Bridge in one direction, and lights on Alcatraz in another.
Above the water is the new moon, bright enough to reflect off the waves. And above that, stars.
Discussions of uniforms naturally lead to talking about space, and you question Chris on life as a starship captain, the places he’s been and the things he’s seen. His stories fascinate you, even if you’re not entirely sure you believe them all.
“You ever think about travelling? Seeing the stars?” he asks as you start in on the second round of drinks.
“Actually yes. More and more, recently. I was in a tour commemorating the founding of the Federation a few years ago. The concert on Vulcan... that was fun.”
“Oh?”
“A couple of Vulcan musicians caught up with me after the show, asking about the logic of conveying emotion in music, and why I didn’t just showcase the beauty of the mathematical structure underpinning it all.”
“That sounds very Vulcan. I have some experience with them.” He smiles, there’s something fond in his expression as it goes distant for a moment. “My chief science officer is Vulcan. He can sometimes be... blunt.”
“Yes, blunt.” You nod. “I knew they were asking in good faith, and after I got over my surprise it led to an interesting conversation. It was good to look at things from a viewpoint I hadn’t considered before.”
“That part of exploration... the way it challenges our perspective? That’s one of the things that keeps me going back out there.”
“Plus the things you get to see... the crystal formations on Iyer sound amazing. I want to see those. Shame Starfleet doesn’t take passengers.”
He laughs at that. “If I could I’d take you in a heartbeat.” He pauses, then reaches out to touch your hand. “You should go, though. To Iyer. Hell, you should travel the galaxy, if you want to. You can. Earth will still be here when you want to come home.”
“I should, huh. I still have a few weeks to go here, but after that... I was waiting for the right opportunity, to sing somewhere? But maybe I should just go explore.”
You sip your drink, feeling thoughtful. “So how long are you planetside?”
“Until tomorrow. Afternoon.” He smiles, lopsided and utterly charming, and you feel flutters inside you as you make your decision.
The corners of your mouth turn up, and you look him in the eye. “It’s a bit too late for food now, but would it be forward of me to ask you to—”
Your communicator beeps, and you frown, pulled out of the moment.
“You gonna get that?” He asks, expression gone amused.
You pull the communicator out and stare at it a moment, wondering if you can make it go quiet by force of will. But anyone calling this late must have a particular reason; it’s probably just Ayre wanting to give you an out from your date if you need one. You pull a face, and stand.
“I’d better. I’ll just be a minute.”
The breeze coming off the bay is chilly, and you feel goosebumps raise on your arms as you activate the communicator one handed, hugging the other across your stomach.
“Hello?”
“Oh thank God, I thought you were never going to pick up. It’s Leda. You need to come back to the theatre, now. It’s nothing bad, but we’re having a meeting. The others are here already, but you weren’t with them.”
“Um... now now? I’m sorry Leda, can’t whatever it is wait? I—I’m on a date...”
You hear her take a breath, and you can picture her in your mind’s eye, pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to slow down. “I’m sorry about that, but I wouldn’t call you in if the matter wasn’t of the utmost importance. Time is a factor, too. When will you be here?”
You stifle your sigh.
“Give me fifteen.”
Chris must pick up something in your expression as you return to him.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, but no. Leda – Leda Lau, director of music – has summoned me back to the theatre for a meeting. I tried to tell her I was otherwise engaged, but she was insistent.” You sigh. “I’m so sorry, I was really enjoying our evening, but I’m going to have to abandon you.”
Chris stands and picks up your jacket, expression sympathetic. “Orders are orders. I understand. Let me walk you back.”
You take your jacket from him as you get to the door, and put it on before stepping outside.
“No, I’ll be fine. It’s way out of your way, if you’re staying at HQ.”
“I insist.” His small half-smile is back, and he holds out his arm for you. “My parents didn’t raise me to let a date walk back alone.”
The streets are quiet on your way to the theatre, stars glimmering above you, and it seems like no time before you’re coming up to the stage door again.
“Thank you for tonight.” You turn to face Chris, staring up into his blue eyes. “I’m sorry I had to bail on you. But... if you find yourself back on Earth again, feel free to look me up.”
He stares back down at you, and something in his blue eyes is searching. You know he’s going to kiss you—
“—don’t want you to worry, that’s all. I’ll be back soon. Yeah, see you later. Oh, hi—” Edward, a violinist, waves at you as he walks up to the door. “You here for the…? I’ll, uh… see you inside.” He gives you an apologetic glance, having just noticed Chris.
But the moment is broken, and Chris has already moved away.
“If you find yourself in space, feel free to look me up,” he says.
You smile, wistful. “I will.”
Somehow you make it through the door without looking back.