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I know we’ve only met, but let’s pretend it’s love
He’s on his third glass of cider on an empty stomach, and unless he eats something right now, things might get really embarrassing really soon.
The waitress sails pass his table again, giving him a knowing, pitiful look. She looks nice enough—Orion: for some reason he wishes girls like her weren’t always stuck in menial jobs like this; or maybe he doesn’t know the entire story here? it’s been known to happen—but he’s inches away from strangling her.
And at least half of the patrons along with her. Because at this point, everybody is staring at him.
He wonders what it is they’re thinking: what whispered conversations are they having about him behind cupped hands. “Poor sod, stood up like this. Maybe his date got held up at work. Nah, just look at him—he’s probably dating some holo-actress, and you know how flexible their schedules are. Not only their schedules… Oh, Bradley, you pig.” And so on, and so forth.
It’s not a holo-actress he’s waiting on. Not a hostess from a popular venue. Not even a faculty assistant from the Academy. It’s actually a woman his friend Joe urged him to meet—supposedly nice, good-looking and smart: but also very much late, if she’s in fact coming at all.
He hates blind dates, he decides, picking up his comm. PADD and shaking it discreetly, in case some software malfunction has caused a need for emergency reboot. No such luck.
“Anything I could get you, sir?” The waitress is back, order PADD at the ready, the look on her face turning from sympathetic to slightly irritated. “Or perhaps you’d rather move to the bar as you… wait?”
In other words: you’re taking up precious table space. Nobody’s coming. Deal with it.
He’s loathe to comply with her wishes—especially since ‘Bradley’ is looking much too smug as he observes the altercation. On the other hand, what point is there to prolong this misery indefinitely? The woman isn’t coming. He’s never taking dating advice from Joe again, ever. He’ll grow old, alone and wrinkly and prematurely grey (it’s already happening, for spirits’ sake), and he’ll always sit at the bar in fancy restaurants, watching…
“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry! My hover-car broke down, had to take a cab and it took ages!”
His head snaps up, which is why he manages to hide his absolutely bewildered expression as a woman he’s never seen before in his life kisses his face. He thinks she was aiming at the left upper quadrant of his left cheek, seeing that he was looking down at the time—but since he’s moved rather rapidly, her lips land somewhat closer to the corner of his mouth. He gasps, breathing in her perfume—chocolate and liquorice and musk—and she puts her hand briefly on his cheek, leaning in to whisper, “I’m Kathryn. Just—go with it, okay?”
He has enough clarity of mind left not to nod, but rather take a hold of her hand and squeeze it gently (her skin is soft, but cold, as if she’d spent quite a while outside). “It’s not your fault, Kathryn,” he says softly, and smiles as her eyes sparkle. “Would you like a drink?”
She reaches for his glass with her free hand, takes a sip and licks her lips appreciatively. “Antarian cider. I’ll have one, too.”
The waitress nods hastily, adding the beverage to her PADD. “Certainly, ma’am.”
“I hate when they do this,” Kathryn mutters, shrugging off a loose-fitting, auburn sweater, and throwing it over an arm of the empty chair. He uses the few seconds to take quick stock of his surprise companion: red hair in slight disarray, mischievously smiling blue eyes, an adorable cluster of freckles on the bridge of her nose, and very kissable lips, one corner quirking up as she leans forward, chin resting on her hand. “Call me ‘ma’am’, I mean; makes me feel like my own mother. Do I pass?”
“What?” he blinks, ashamed to be caught staring. Kathryn’s smile deepens, and she touches his hand—either she’s really into this scenario, or she’s a very tactile person. Possibly both.
“The inspection. You’re looking at me like you haven’t seen me in ages. We’re supposed to be a couple on a date, remember?”
“Perhaps we’re doing the long distance thing for some reason. Or perhaps I simply haven’t seen you for two whole days,” he counters, giving her what he’s been told is his best smile. She grins right back, squeezing his fingers.
“Just two, huh?”
“Much too long, if you ask me.” He takes a daring bet and lifts her hand, lips brushing her knuckles.
She’s even prettier when she blushes.
The waitress brings the cider and takes their orders—if anyone asked him what they were, he would have been completely unable to answer. “So,” Kathryn shuffles her chair closer to the table, allowing her to lean back whilst keeping her hand firmly in his, “could you maybe… tell me your name?”
He groans at his own idiocy, and raises his glass to clink against hers. “Chakotay. Middle name: Eternally Grateful To You For Saving My Sorry Ass.”
“That’s quite a mouthful,” she remarks casually, and the sauciness of her smile makes certain parts of his anatomy react violently.
“You’re something else, aren’t you?”
She shrugs, sipping the cider. “Depends on what you consider to be ‘something else’. I am a Starfleet brat who’s chosen the science path over command. Too ambitious for her own good. And much too spontaneous, probably.” She puts the glass down and looks at their joined hands, slipping her fingers between his. “And always looking for a happy ending. What about you?”
“Anthropology professor at the Academy. Off-worlder, outsider, with no luck in love life—until tonight, that is. And to think I was about to swear off blind dates…”
“You were looking quite miserable,” she nods, unwillingly releasing his hand as their food arrives. “I saw through the window, all those people looking at you like you had some sort of a disease—I couldn’t stand it. I had to walk in.”
“I’m glad you did,” he says. He wonders whether she realizes that he means ‘to his life’ more than ‘to the restaurant’. He digs into his salad, catches her hungry gaze and presents her with a forkful of greens. They eat like this for a while, exchanging bites and stealing each other’s fries, until finally they forego the formalities and order two scoops of ice-cream in one bowl: coffee for her, vanilla for him. The conversation flows, although, again—he has no idea what topics they’re discussing. He’s much too focused on the way Kathryn’s eyes light up when the waitress suggests a new blend of coffee for them to try: he’s pretty such he’s just discovered a vice. Something to remember for the next time.
Because, he’s surprised to find himself thinking as he helps Kathryn drape that ridiculously large sweater on her shoulders (‘I get cold easily’—he can think of a few ways to deal with this predicament), he’s hoping he’ll get to see her again.
More to the point: he couldn’t stand not to.
“I had a great time tonight,” he announces once they’re outside, unsure what to do with his hands. Kathryn rolls her eyes and insinuates herself under his arm—keeping up appearances, probably.
“Me too. It was by far the best unplanned date of my life.”
“Do you do this often?” he asks, irrationally angry with himself. “Save men from themselves?”
“Actually, this was the first time ever.”
“Any chance of convincing you not to make a habit out of it?”
“I’m not sure,” she purrs, turning in his embrace until they’re standing very close together, and he can smell her perfume again. “What are you proposing in return?…”
–
Sixteen months later, when they come back to the restaurant, it’s his turn to surprise her: but it’s still her who saves him.
/end