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The corridors are usually empty at 05:30. Every stardate at this time, Castiel leaves his barracks, making his way alone through the quiet hallways until he reaches his usual spot at the turbolift doors. Here he waits for the lift to arrive to take him from the lower decks up to the arboretum, tucking himself away safely before the bustle of 06:00 shift change when officers and crew drag themselves through the hallways, laughing over morning coffee or grumbling after a long night's work.
His research in the greenhouse is solitary. Predictable. Peaceful. Any surprise or challenge he encounters during his research is welcome, much preferable to the chaos of human social structure that is life aboard a Federation starship.
As he waits, he examines his reflection, partially visible in the dull finish of the sliding doors. He appears the same as he did yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. His uniform, consisting of the standard formal black pants and a neat sky-blue uniform shirt, features a single ring of gold braid embroidered around the wrist of each sleeve, denoting his rank as Lieutenant. The gold insignia on the left side of his chest shines slightly, highlighting the circular logo within that denotes his role as a researcher within the Sciences division to all officers and crew he may encounter.
If Castiel is gauging human emotion correctly, it isn’t his authority or position that sets most of the crew at general unease in his presence - they don’t seem to react the same way to others aboard the ship who share his station. If one thinks logically, it’s more likely that an unpredictable element is the cause. Perhaps it’s his posture, usually stiff and formal in comparison to his peers. Or his manner of speech, which can be characterized in much the same way.
It’s equally possible that it’s his hair. Though he regularly combs and coaxes the cool-brown mass into as neat a style as he can manage, it reverts to laying in tufts and waves regardless. The resulting style is too strange for most human officers, let alone anywhere close to emulating the distinct sleek-straight hairstyle of his home planet.
But it’s most likely to be his ears, the points of his lobes always visible even on the worst of hair days, constantly announcing the presence of other.
It's not that he minds. It was his choice to leave home after his time at the Vulcan Science Academy, in search of an institution that would allow him to conduct his research in peace, his peculiarities of personality notwithstanding. Starfleet Academy was an attractive choice since it allows members of the founding Federation planets to attend no matter their species. During his time there, he found the diversity of thought, opinion, and lifestyle to be fascinating and invigorating.
If it were more pertinent to his mission, he might make more of an effort to get to know his crewmates while aboard the starship for his assignment. But Castiel’s time and energy are better spent pruning vines and checking on the colonies of his pollinators - it’s why he’s here, after all.
It's only logical.
The doors finally whoosh open. Castiel enters the turbolift, grasping one of several handles and turning it to activate the lift controls.
"Deck Eight," he announces to no one, and the lift doors begin to close.
"Hey! Hold the door!" an urgent voice calls from the corridor behind him, joined by the thud of quick heavy footsteps. "Hold the door, please!"
Castiel rotates the handle into the hold position, and the double doors freeze mid-close. He looks behind in time to see a sandy-haired blur of a man launch himself through the gap, joining him in the turbolift. The stranger stops his momentum by slamming himself against the wall.
"Go, go, go!" the man urges breathlessly, too busy laughing and gathering himself to grab a handle and choose his own destination.
"Which deck?" Castiel asks, his steady voice masking his mild surprise.
From his doubled-over position, the man waves him off, dismissing Castiel's question. "Doesn't matter, wherever you’re going. Quickly, before - "
"DEAN?!"
Castiel turns to check out the source of the new, booming voice, just in time to see a giant of a man round the end of the corridor into view, hair and bathrobe flying as he barrels straight towards them.
" - he finds me." The stranger plasters one hand over his mouth and flattens himself against the curve of the wall nearest to the door, in a futile attempt to become less visible through the gap of the doors.
Castiel rotates the handle, signaling the turbolift to continue his journey to the arboretum, and the doors begin to slide closed once again. He takes up his previous position by the wall just in time - a round, red object rockets through the crack in the door right before they seal closed, sailing between him and the crewman before slamming against the back wall of the small space with a heavy thud. It rolls along the floor to settle at the tips of Castiel's work shoes at the same time the now-muffled voice behind the doors calls out, "I'm gonna kill you, jerk!".
When the thrusters engage and the familiar whirr of the turbolift in motion begins, the stranger - first name Dean, a noncom crew member based on his lack of braids - lets out a great exhale before chuckling once more, his chest shaking with laughter underneath his beige uniform shirt. He bends down to scoop the object off the floor, tossing it to himself with a laugh and a whoop.
"Thanks, man, you really saved my bacon there," Dean jokes, voice low and smooth. He leans back against the wall of the lift, finally facing Castiel properly, and continues to casually fidget with the object as he flashes an easy smile. Seeing Castiel's one quirked eyebrow, he sends a cheeky wink in return, allowing his eyes to roam up and down over him.
Castiel notes the exact moment a half-second later when the crewman’s eyes finally land on Castiel's rank insignia.
The friendly smile immediately falls off his face, replaced with a slightly slack jaw and wide, horrified eyes. He corrects his posture, squaring his shoulders as he swings one hand behind his back and grips the nearest turbolift handle with the other, foreign object still wedged between two fingers.
"Lieutenant," he croaks, his tone now tight and formal, eyes focused on the wall dead ahead. "I'm so sorry. Forgive my behaviour, sir."
Castiel doesn't answer right away.
In his experience, humans can experience a diverse range of emotions in a short period of time. The crew member already displayed recklessness, mirth, and an unprofessional level of casual attitude. His immediate change in demeanor when recognising his superior’s rank demonstrates guilt at his own lack of respect for station. Perhaps he feels some shame as well, if Castiel is correctly interpreting the reason for the smattering of pink growing across the man's freckled cheeks. If Dean is truly as earnest as his current behaviour and body language indicates, logic dictates that remorse will likely come next, and anything Castiel could do would be superfluous at that point.
Making him 'sweat', as they say, would be punishment enough.
Castiel allows himself one more visual sweep of the crewman, whose blush is creeping up his neck to meet his cheeks. He watches the bob of Dean’s larynx as he swallows in nervousness, but notes how he steadily maintains his forward gaze.
"I will need a fuller picture of the order of events so that I can determine whether or not I should issue a behaviour report." Castiel tilts his head to get a better look at the projectile tucked between Dean's fingers. Dean doesn't answer, as it wasn't a question, but he follows Castiel's lead and switches his grip on the handle in order to drop the object into Castiel's hand.
Castiel rolls the object deftly with his fingers, examining the entire surface. It is indeed a round red ball as he first observed, made of what appears to be a flexible rubber. It's not quite a sphere, as a slice cuts through 2/3rd of the diameter, and the cut bends open with the flex of the ball when he squeezes it in the palm of his hand.
Unable to identify the object, he offers Dean a single raised brow in question.
"It's uh, a clown nose?" Dean begins to clarify. "You know clowns? Old Earth entertainers, big shoes, too much makeup? No?" He windmills his free hand as if hoping to coax recognition from his superior officer.
When Castiel offers none, Dean continues. "I may or may not have reprogrammed my brother's matter replicator to fabricate these. And nothing else. In batches of ten. In place of his morning coffee. It's just a harmless prank, that's it."
Castiel looks to the back wall of the turbolift at the small red rub where the ball made impact. "Harmless indeed," he quips, giving the ball another squeeze.
"Here, let me - " Dean holds out his hand, gently taking the clown nose from Castiel. He pinches it in such a way that causes the cut to open wide, then reaches over, placing the red rubber ball on the tip of his nose before letting go.
The ball remains behind, perched on Castiel’s nose.
"Oh, yeah, that's a good look for you. Sir," he corrects quickly.
Castiel frowns slightly in an attempt to look down at it, causing Dean to choke back an ill-disguised laugh.
"And your brother, he likes these... clowns?" Castiel uses his free hand to feel around the nose on his face, frowning slightly but not removing the object.
"Oh, no," Dean clarifies emphatically. "He's terrified of them. That's what makes the prank funny. This was my way of letting him know that my transfer to the ship was accepted." He gestures to his beige uniform, typical of the Federation outposts and rarely seen on a starship. "Nobody else on board would know that he has that phobia, except for you, now, I guess, so now he knows I’m here."
Castiel pulls off the nose. "Surely a regular subspace transmission would have sufficed."
Unable to hide his glee, Dean's grin returns and he rolls his eyes playfully. "Well, yeah, but where's the fun in that?"
Before Castiel has a chance to point out how fun isn't logical, Dean presses on, dropping his volume to speak in a more serious tone.
"Look, I shouldn't be asking this, but... don't report me. Please. I just got here. I didn't disrupt anything except Samsquatch's breakfast. And maybe your peaceful turbolift ride, but that's not breaking any codes."
"I suppose not," Castiel muses, "though your unsanctioned maintenance of a matter replicator may be a different story."
The turbolift doors slide open to let in two medical officers, and Dean begins to wind his way between them in a move that Castiel can only categorize as 'escaping'. "Thanks, Lieutenant, sir! I owe you one!"
Seeing the moment for what it was, a losing battle, Castiel chooses not to fight, despite not actually agreeing to Dean’s request. He holds the clown nose above the heads of the new arrivals for Dean to retrieve. "You forgot your nose, Crewman - ?"
"Winchester!" Dean calls back, jogging down the corridor to presumably find a hiding place from his brother. "Chief Winchester! And you can keep it!"
The doors close and the turbolift resumes as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. The medical offers chatter softly between one another. He lowers his arm.
With nowhere to put the clown nose, he rolls the ball back and forth in his free hand once again. "Fascinating," he says to no one.
One of the officers leans back slightly to address him. "Which one - the ball, or the Chief?"
She and her colleague titter in quiet laughter while Castiel silently reflects on his answer to her question.