Chapter Text
The first year out of the Academy is nothing like the simulations.
Caleb learns this somewhere between his third overnight shift and the first time he has to break up a fight between two engineers who *absolutely* should have known better. Security duty is less glory and more exhaustion, but he’s good at it—calm under pressure, instinctive, controlled in ways he wasn’t as a cadet.
Darem learns it on the bridge.
He stands at his station in crisp gold, posture immaculate, voice steady as he routes subspace traffic and manages comms during his ship’s first real deep-space patrol. People listen to him now. Not because he’s loud or sharp, but because he’s right.
They’re both exactly where they’re supposed to be.
They’re just… not together.
Different ships. Different patrol sectors. Weeks—sometimes months—between rendezvous. The kind of distance Starfleet tells you to expect and never really prepares you for.
They make it work anyway.
Caleb calls when his shift ends and his adrenaline hasn’t quite worn off, voice low and familiar, sprawled across his bunk with one arm thrown over his eyes.
“You alive?” he asks, like it’s casual.
Darem answers from his quarters, boots kicked off, uniform jacket slung over a chair. “Unfortunately. You?”
“Barely. Got shoved into a bulkhead today.”
Darem stiffens. “Are you injured?”
“I said shoved,” Caleb replies, dry. “Not stabbed. Relax, comms officer.”
Darem exhales through his nose. “One day, you’re going to stop pretending you’re indestructible.”
“One day, you’re going to stop worrying,” Caleb shoots back—and then, softer, “Not today, though.”
The pauses are what get them.
The lag between messages. The missed calls because of time zone mismatches and red alerts. The way Darem sometimes wakes up reaching for a body that isn’t there, and the way Caleb catches himself turning toward empty space after a rough patrol.
They argue sometimes.
Nothing explosive—just sharp edges, frayed patience, the strain of two people used to relying on each other now forced to do it from light-years apart.
“You don’t have to carry everything alone,” Darem says once, voice tight through the comm.
“I’m not,” Caleb replies, just as tight. “I just don’t want to dump it on you when you’re not even here.”
That one lingers between them for days.
But they also do the small things.
Darem sends Caleb encrypted comm logs—mundane bridge chatter he knows Caleb finds soothing, proof that he’s safe.
Caleb records voice messages after late shifts, low and steady, telling Darem about nothing and everything just to give him something familiar to listen to before sleep.
They count the days until their next scheduled joint exercise like cadets again, pretending they’re not doing it.
And when they finally do meet—when their ships dock at the same starbase months later—there’s no dramatic reunion.
Just Darem spotting Caleb across the hangar and walking faster without realizing it.
Just Caleb dropping his gear and pulling him close without a word.
No jokes. No insults.
Just relief.
They’re still figuring it out. Still learning how to be together while apart. Still navigating what it means to love someone whose duty can pull them light-years away without warning.
But every time the comm crackles to life and the other’s voice comes through, steady and real—
—they remember.
Distance hasn’t broken them yet.
________
The starbase is neutral ground.
Not Darem’s ship. Not Caleb’s. Just a place where neither of them is on duty for a few precious hours, where the hum of the station feels almost domestic instead of operational.
Darem waits near the observation windows, gold uniform immaculate as ever, hands clasped behind his back like he’s on the bridge—even though he absolutely doesn’t need to be. The lights from the nebula outside catch in the metallic threading of his shirt, making him look every bit the officer he’s grown into.
Caleb spots him from halfway down the concourse.
Security red. Relaxed stance. The kind of presence that makes people unconsciously give him space.
Darem turns just in time to see Caleb smile.
It’s small. Private. Only for him.
“Communications,” Caleb says when he gets close, eyes flicking over the gold. “You clean up well.”
Darem snorts. “You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I say that because I missed it,” Caleb replies easily—and that makes Darem’s chest tighten in a way he pretends not to notice.
Their date is quiet. Private.
No grand gestures—just a walk along the ring of the station, hands brushing, shoulders bumping as they point out stars and argue over which nebula looks more unstable. They eat at a small civilian café where no one knows them, where Darem relaxes enough to take his jacket off and Caleb stretches out like he actually believes he’s off-duty.
“You’re smiling,” Darem notes.
Caleb blinks. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” Darem says softly. “You do that when you’re not bracing for something.”
Caleb huffs a laugh, then sobers. “Guess I forgot what that feels like.”
They meet their captains later.
It’s… awkward. Not bad—just the kind of polite tension that comes from two command-level officers evaluating each other while trying not to intrude on their subordinates’ personal lives.
Caleb’s captain is warm but sharp-eyed, shakes Darem’s hand firmly. “So you’re the communications officer I’ve heard so much about.”
Darem’s captain, taller and cooler, regards Caleb with an appraising look. “Security,” they say. “From reading your file, I'd imagined you would end up on the other side of the law.”
Darem bristles instinctively. Caleb just smiles, calm and unreadable.
“I do my best,” he says.
The captains exchange a look.
The countdown starts anyway.
It always does.
They sit together near the docking bay later, shoulder to shoulder, watching cargo crews move with practiced efficiency. Darem’s fingers curl into the gold fabric at his thigh; Caleb’s hand drifts close enough to touch without quite doing it.
“Same time next cycle?” Caleb asks lightly.
Darem exhales. “You know it won’t be that easy.”
“I know,” Caleb says. Then, softer, “Still worth asking.”
The announcement comes too soon.
All personnel report back to your assigned vessels.
Darem stands first. Caleb follows.
They stop just short of where their paths split.
No drama. No promises they can’t keep.
Just Darem reaching out, fingers brushing the back of Caleb’s hand—grounding, familiar.
“Stay safe,” Darem says.
Caleb smirks faintly. “You too, gold shirt.”
Darem rolls his eyes. “Security red.”
They lean in—foreheads touching briefly, just long enough to breathe each other in.
Then they turn.
Different directions.
Same stars.
And the quiet certainty that this—whatever this is—is strong enough to survive the distance again.
__________
(1 year later)
_____________
Six months is long enough for habits to change.
Caleb notices it the moment he steps off the transport—how he scans the concourse automatically, how his posture settles into something harder, more contained. He tells himself it’s just another docking. Another starbase.
Then he sees Darem.
Gold uniform. Broader somehow. Standing too straight like he’s holding himself in place by will alone.
Darem turns.
For half a second, neither of them moves.
Then Darem’s composure fractures.
He closes the distance in long strides, stops just short of collision, eyes searching Caleb’s face like he’s counting to make sure everything’s still there.
“You’re late,” Darem says, voice tight.
Caleb exhales a crooked smile. “Good to see you too.”
They don’t hug immediately. There’s too much pent-up time between them, too much to process. Darem’s gaze drops—habitual, sharp—and that’s when he sees it.
The scar.
A pale, jagged line across the back of Caleb’s hand, newer than the old ones. Still faintly raised.
Darem’s eyes snap back up. “What is that.”
Caleb’s smile fades. “It’s nothing.”
“That is *not* nothing,” Darem snaps. “You didn’t have that six months ago.”
Caleb flexes his fingers unconsciously. “…Occupational hazard.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Darem says, anger bleeding through fear now. “You didn’t even *mention* it.”
Caleb’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“I worry anyway!” Darem’s voice cracks just enough to make Caleb still. “You vanish for half a year, and you show up with a new scar like it’s just another story you forgot to tell.”
The concourse hums around them, people passing, unaware of the fault line opening between two officers standing too close.
Caleb steps forward. “I’m here,” he says quietly. “I made it back.”
Darem stares at him—really looks—and whatever anger he had collapses under the weight of relief. He reaches out, grips Caleb’s wrist gently but firmly, thumb brushing the edge of the scar.
“You don’t get to disappear on me like that,” he says hoarsely.
Caleb swallows. “Neither do you.”
The tension snaps.
Darem kisses him first—sharp, desperate, hands fisting in the front of Caleb’s uniform like he needs proof he’s real. Caleb responds instantly, pulling him closer, pouring six months of missed moments into that single connection.
They break apart only when breathing becomes necessary.
Darem presses his forehead to Caleb’s. “I hate this,” he admits. “The distance. The waiting. The not knowing if you’re safe.”
Caleb exhales shakily. “Me too.”
Darem pulls back just enough to meet his eyes. His expression is fierce. Decided.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he says. “Not like this. Not apart.”
Caleb blinks. “Darem—”
“No,” Darem interrupts, reaching into the inner pocket of his uniform. His hands shake just slightly as he produces a simple band—unadorned, Starfleet-issued, unmistakable.
Caleb’s breath catches.
“Marry me,” Darem says, voice steady despite everything. “Request joint assignment. Shared quarters. Same ship. I don’t care how much paperwork it takes—I’m done pretending I’m okay being without you.”
For once, Caleb has no joke ready.
He just stares—at the ring, at Darem, at the future suddenly laid bare in front of him.
“…You know I’m terrible at not getting hurt,” he says quietly.
Darem huffs, eyes bright. “Good. Then I’ll be there to yell at you in person.”
Caleb laughs—a soft, disbelieving sound—and pulls Darem back into his arms. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do it.”
Darem exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year and presses the ring into Caleb’s hand.
Six months was too long.
They’re not doing that again.
______________
The news spreads faster than either of them expects.
It starts small—Genesis cornering Caleb in the corridor with a shriek and a bone-crushing hug. Ake just stares at the ring for a long moment before saying, very calmly, “I knew it,” and then immediately demanding every detail. On Darem’s end, his captain raises an eyebrow, congratulates him, and then dryly warns him that joint assignments come with “heroic amounts of paperwork.”
They don’t care.
They celebrate anyway.
Two days of stolen time on the starbase—meals eaten too slowly, hands always touching, quiet laughter in shared quarters. Darem keeps catching himself just *looking* at Caleb, like he’s afraid he’ll blink and six months will pass again.
The paperwork goes in on the first morning.
Joint assignment request. Transfer orders. Medical clearances. Psychological evaluations that ask far too many questions about emotional resilience and attachment.
Approved—pending completion of Caleb’s final six weeks.
That’s when reality sinks its teeth in.
The night before they have to separate again, they sit side by side on the edge of the bed, uniforms discarded, lights dim. Caleb rolls the ring around his finger, thumb brushing the smooth metal.
“Six weeks,” he says. “That’s nothing.”
Darem snorts. “You’re lying to yourself.”
Caleb smiles faintly. “Yeah. Probably.”
Darem leans his shoulder against Caleb’s, voice quieter now. “We’ve done worse.”
“We have,” Caleb agrees. “But this time feels different.”
“Because now there’s an end,” Darem says. “And because now I know exactly what I’m missing.”
Caleb reaches over, lacing their fingers together carefully—still instinctively protective of his hands even years later. “We’ll count it down,” he says. “Messages every day. Calls whenever we can. No heroic secrets.”
Darem hums. “I reserve the right to panic internally.”
“That’s your brand.”
They kiss slowly, deliberately, like they’re committing the moment to memory.
The goodbye at the transport pad is worse than either of them admits.
They don’t say much. Too many eyes. Too many uniforms. But Darem presses his forehead to Caleb’s one last time and murmurs, “Come back to me.”
Caleb smiles, steady and sure. “Always.”
Then the light takes him.
Back on their respective ships, excitement hums beneath everything—shared future, shared space, together at last—but the nerves linger. Six weeks of waiting. Six weeks of counting stars and hoping nothing goes wrong.
Darem stares at the ring on his own hand later that night, heart full and aching all at once.
Six weeks.
They can do six weeks.
They have to.