Uniformly Distracted

Posted on Tue Jun 24th, 2025 @ 5:38am by Lieutenant JG Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil

2,272 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: Character Backstories
Location: Starfleet Academy, San Francisco, Earth
Timeline: 5 April 2385

The dormitory lounge in Six-Gamma smelled of burnt popcorn, stale synthale and sour perspiration.

A rickety travel-sized chess board that looked as though it had been through the Dominion War had been perched on one of the three stained and scratched lounge tables. It was ground-zero for yet another illicit chess-drinking tournament. Cadet Alvarez--a gangly, bright-eyed, and fuddled first-year--had just declared checkmate with a twirl of his knight. His opponent, first-year Cadet Yenahon, a Betazoid with a terrible poker face and a traitorous liver, tried to bring the chessboard into focus through squinting. He blinked three times, and then toppled sideways in slow motion onto the carpet.

Naturally, the small crowd of first-years whooped and cheered before several offered to help Yenahon to his feet. One offered him another drink. Another waved a tricorder around like it was some kind of medal of honour. No one seemed overly concerned. After all, it was a holiday. Even the dormitory's automated security monitoring system had turned a blind eye to the party-like atmosphere on First Contact Day.

Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil watched from the threshold, arms folded, leaning casual-like against the doorframe like a magnanimous prison warden. His civilian button-up shirt was half-tucked. The sleeves were rolled-up, exposing lean forearms and a frayed wristband from a boxing match he'd lost earlier that week. He looked every bit the off-duty senior. In truth, he was older than the other cadets by a handful of years, having attended university before becoming a Starfleet Academy fast-tracker, and incidentally, the dorm's reluctant but respected Dormitory Advisor.

He could smell the synthale from the doorway. Someone had imported the good stuff from Lissepia Prime, too. Probably Van Deventer, the third-year economics major who seemed to always find a way to obtain exactly what the rest of the dorm wanted.

"Alright, alright," he called out, voice even and dry. "That's your last match. Pills now. Water. No arguments."

There was a mild groan but no hint of protest. A few cadets dug through a shared tin of anti-inebriation tablets that were standard issue as part of Starfleet's harm minimization objective. Even JB kept several dozen in his desk drawer on the off-chance a resident needed one. He watched them each pop them like sour candy. One tried to hide it in his sleeve but JB gave him a withering look and the sleeve quickly surrendered.

Alvarez, triumphant but on the verge of face-planting, saluted him with drunken reverence. "Advisor Dorsainvil, sir, I regret nothing."

"You will," JB muttered with a barely-concealed smile. "Especially when that hangover chases you into your xenobotany lecture tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's a holiday, sir."

"I said what I said."


* * *


He was halfway down the corridor, still amused at the lengths cadets will go to turn synthale consumption into a game, when the storm hit him dead-on.

"Cadet Dorsainvil--I need your brain, immediately!"

It was Cadet Th'rassel sh'Varess--second year, Andorian, short, far too verbose, and currently unraveling at what could only be described as quantum slipstream velocity. She nearly collided with him in the hallway, her antennae twitching as though the appendages were trying to detach themselves from her cranium. In one hand, Th'rassel was clutching a data PADD with a death grip.

"It's stellar cartography," she said, already heading into that downward spiral. "They graded the midterm to a curve, but I know they didn't scale it properly because of course there's no universe where my response to the gravitational contouring of the Planck-model dark matter streams merits only a B-minus. And I've read the required literature. And I've cited Bolaris. I even--"

"You've already filed a dispute, haven't you?" JB asked, gently steering her out of the path of another cadet and toward the kitchenette with a practiced arm.

"Yes. Four hours ago. But they haven't responded, and that's a blatant violation of the Starfleet Cadet Grievance Response Protocol, subsection seventeen--"

"Breathe."

"I'm breathing."

"Slower."

JB had learned long ago not to counter Th'rassel's spirals with any kind of rational approach. She didn't need logic. What she needed was grounding. Once inside the kitchenette, he gently guided her to a chair with plush backing and set his hands lightly on her shoulders--not forcefully, but just enough to tether her to something real and tangible.

"Remember the tapping exercises?"

She nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I remember.'

"Good. Then do you remember the sequence?"

Th'rassel shook her head and he could see she was about to melt down.

"Alright," he said reassuringly, taking an impromptu seat on the kitchenette floor in front of her. "We start at TH. Top of the head. Here we go." He started with her, bringing his index and middle fingers to an acupressure point at the very top of his head where he began a steady but gentle tapping. "Five taps each. Match your breathing to motion."

She mirrored his movements, their fingers moving in unison to the eyebrow point, followed by the orbital bone just to the side of the eye.

Seeing she was slightly off, he reached over and guided her fingers to the correct point. "You're not dying," he reminded her. "It's a letter on a screen. You are not a letter."

They moved on to the point under the eye, then under the nose, followed by the chin point.

"Good," he said calmly. "Repeat it silently: You are not a letter. Keep that rhythm." They tapped the collarbone point next, then slightly below the breast, then roughly four inches below the armpit. For the final point, JB lifted a relaxed hand before his face, palm turned toward him, and gently tapped the outer edge. "Good. Now deep breath. And exhale more slowly."

The Andorian cadet appeared more relaxed than previously. When her shoulders eased and her fingers began to repeat the tapping cycle, he patted her knee and rose. "Keep going. I've got to the change before the ceremony. You'll be alright."

She was already tapping out a steady rhythm, her lips moving as she silently repeated the mantra.


* * *


He was nearly back to his quarters when the mountain came to him.

"JB!"

Jean-Baptiste stopped short as Cadet Lodwick, a first-year with a bull-neck, arms as thick as nacelles, and an unfortunate habit for wearing tight-fitting clothing, stormed toward him with his uniform torn at the neckline and ripped along the seam of one armpit.

"It's my uniform again," Lodwick grumbled, as if he'd just abandoned all hope. "I followed the matter replicator pattern to the millimeter. I even measured my biceps."

JB was forced to bite the inside of his cheek. "I believe you. But you're still programming it too small. If you can't lift your arms above shoulder level, it's a compression sleeve and not a duty uniform."

"But I want everyone to see my progress," Lodwick said. "I've been cutting carbs for weeks."

"Then show them at the gym, not on the parade grounds. Program your outseam and rise two sizes up. Shoulder width, one size. Trust me."

The now-deflated cadet nodded. "You know best, JB. Thanks."

Jean-Baptiste clapped him on the back. "On est tous des travaux en cours." ("We're all works in progress.")

"What?"

"Nevermind, Lodwick."


* * *


The door to his quarters bore the brass plaque like an insignia of silent suffering:

Cadet Dormitory Advisor - Dorsainvil, J-B
Cadet Dormitory Advisor - Surlek

He reached for the panel but was thwarted before his hand could touch the buttons.

Jacqueline Holder--third-year, Barbadian, brilliant, beautiful and unreasonably distracting (and all of five-feet tall), was already leaning against the frame, arms crossed and a smirk already loaded. Her cadet jacket was draped over one shoulder, leaving her in a ribbed charcoal tank and uniform pants cinched low on her hips. The fabric seemed to cling to her like it intended to stay that way forever.

"You're late," she purred.

"I wasn't aware we had an appointment," JB replied.

"Every day you're not in uniform is an appointment." She stepped into him and kissed him--slow, warm, and tasting faintly of mango tea. And mischief.

His hands slid to her waist on instinct. "You know I've got to meet with the ceremony staff in twenty minutes."

"You have twenty-two," she whispered. "Plenty of time for poor decisions."

He grinned, heart pounding, and began undoing the buttons on his shirt as she nudged him backward into the room. The door slid shut behind them. He found her hands were already working under the hem of his undershirt as they stumbled into the room. She kissed the side of his throat.

"I thought you'd forgotten about me."

"I could never forget about you." JB found himself lost in her big brown eyes. "I was busy saving two cadets from synthehol poisoning, talking down an Andorian existential crisis, and resolving a Jupiter-sized uniform dilemma. All before breakfast too."

Jacq smirked. "You mean you were being you."

Her hand found his collar, fingers smoothing the fabric before they dipped underneath, tugging just enough to draw him in closer. Their lips met softly--just once, a greeting--and then again, deeper this time. And fuller. She kissed like she meant it, like it wasn't just about want but about knowing him. It was as if she was fluent in a language only they shared.

JB kissed her back with equal force and felt his pulse quicken, one hand at Jacq's waist, the other found itself gently brushing a coil of hair from her cheek. When they finally parted, she smiled up at him, eyes alight.

"Jacq... I have to be at the parade grounds."

"Then you'd better undress quickly." She stepped back a pace, giving him room.

He stripped out of his undershirt, folding it out of habit, but before he could reach for his pants, she was at his side again, fingers brushing over his dark chest hair. Her was touch was confident and exploratory. Her palm settled flat over his heart, and for a moment neither of them moved.

"I missed you last night," she said breezily.

"I had lights-out duty," he replied. "And I didn't want to risk another cadet catching us sneaking into the communal shower."

She laughed softly, with genuine warmth. "They already think you're a god."

"I try not to encourage it."

She leaned in and kissed the hollow beneath his jaw. "Then stop being so damned good at everything."

Jean-Baptiste's breath caught in his throat, not from her words but from the way her hands were now moving--across his lower back. His own fingers found her waist, slid beneath the edge of her tank top, tracing the skin above her hip. She shivered in delight.

"You know what I love most about you?" she whispered.

"My encyclopedic knowledge of uniform tailoring?"

She smiled, her face pressed against his neck. "Your heart. You make everyone feel seen--even the weirdest first-years and the people who push too hard. You made me feel seen when I didn't even know I wanted to be." Her hand traveled slowly down his chest. "That. And the way you kiss."

So he kissed her again.

They moved together, pressed against the wall now, mouths meeting and parting in a rhythm that was neither rushed nor lazy. His fingers found the small of her back and then lower still, resting where her spine curved into the round of her hips. Her own hand slid beneath the waistband of his pants, not venturing far, just enough to make him exhale through his nose and tighten his grip on her in response.

"Jacq..." he said, almost a warning. Maybe a prayer.

"I know," she whispered. "But you're not going anywhere yet."

She kissed him slowly once more--as if claiming him as hers--then pulled back, her hand returning to rest flat against his bare stomach.

"We don't have to rush. I just wanted to feel you. To remind you that you're still mine," she added with a small smile. "Even when you're wearing the Milky Way on your shoulders."

JB leaned his forehead against hers. "Always yours."

Just then, the door slid open again with impeccable timing.

Cadet Surlek stepped in with a data PADD in hand and stopped mid-stride. His eyes locked onto the pair--JB half-undressed, Jacqueline breathing heavily and still nestled in his arms. The Vulcan fourth-year raised an eyebrow.

"Do you require the room for sexual intercourse?" Surlek asked plainly, tone without judgment--just a straightforward clinical inquiry.

JB felt the blood rising to his cheeks. Jacqueline stifled a laugh behind his shoulder.

"N-no. No, Surlek. We're finished." JB scrambled to find his uniform.

"Very well. I have no intention of interrupting your coital preparations--only to retrieve my notes." Surlek moved past them with the delicacy of a club-footed robot, retreating to the safety of the corridor.

Jacqueline winked at JB as she made her way to the door. "Break a leg out there, senior. I'll be seated with Four-Alpha."

He caught her wrist, held it for just a moment longer. "You always make me feel like I can do anything."

"That's because you can." She kissed his cheek. "Now put your damned uniform on before Surlek catalogs your body mass index."

She slipped out the door with a playful grin.

JB let out a breath, finally retrieving his uniform and pulling the tunic over his head. He'd been many things in his life already--scholar, senior cadet, advisor, friend. However, when he was around Jacq, he felt like something simpler. Like a man someone could love.

And for the time being, it felt like plenty.


* * *

Cadet Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil
Psychology & Counseling Major
Starfleet Academy
Earth

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