One More Song, Part 1

Posted on Tue Jul 22nd, 2025 @ 2:22am by Lieutenant JG Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil & Ensign Wrenleigh Reed
Edited on on Thu Sep 4th, 2025 @ 8:50pm

2,332 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: The Menagerie II
Location: The Portside Glow Bar, Deck 10
Timeline: Evening (MD006, 2045 Hours)

ON:

A long day had led to a long drawn-out sigh and a side to side movement and clicking of Wren's neck as she pulled the stool out in front of her and sat at the bar and put her e-book down on the counter. Wren was tired and a nice glass of wine with a good read in one of the more quieter cafes of the ship was something she'd been looking forward to after about halfway through the day.

She'd chosen to change into casual clothing: a pair black skinny jeans with flat shoes to match, a light tan lightweight off the shoulder pullover, and her hair was plaited to one side with a few pieces out to frame her face.

Within a few minutes of getting herself seated and prepared to relax, the bartender took her order and came back with a glass of deep red wine, a Cabernet that was of a few years vintage. It tasted heavenly as she took the sip, savouring it before putting it on the counter and powering on the device in front of her.

Lieutenant JG Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil stepped through the doorway with a gait that seemed unhurried, but each movement carried that same coiled prescience that never quite left a man after too many years in the shadows. His gold security tunic still sat sharply upon his frame, the combadge catching the low lights and throwing it back like a half-preserved secret.

He paused just inside, letting the room wash over him. He could almost touch the gentle hush of quiet conversations, the tiny whine of a replicator spinning out some sweet consolation prize, the warm eddy of spirits drifting in the air. He took in the shape of it--arched ceilings, long bar backlit in a soft honey glow, a scattering of two-tops and small clusters tucked into the more intimate corners. It felt almost too open for him, too easy to map. But something about it--some soft edge he couldn't quite put a name to--made him remain.

His gaze moved like a steady scan, sweeping each pocket of the room before finding its way to the bar proper. A figure sat there, hair catching the light in a way that seemed almost deliberate. He watched her only for a half-second longer than necessary, then moved forward.

The bartender glanced up, sandy curls bobbing as he pivoted, an easy hospitality behind his blue eyes.

"What'll it be, Lieutenant?"

JB settled onto the stool, his palms pressed lightly to the edge of the polished counter, as if he might be steadying himself before some upcoming plunge.

"I'll have a negroni," he said, his voice soft and courteous. He added, almost as an afterthought, "No garnish, please."

"We have a bottle of the real stuff, if you'd like."

"Let's have that," JB replied, surprised the Astrea had real alcohol stocked in one of the bars.

The bartender gave a nod, already reaching for the gin. JB tilted his head slightly, eyes meandering over the amber bottles, the cut-glass decanters, like he was reading an old case file he almost remembered.

And then, slowly, his attention drifted sideways--to the woman beside him with the wine glass and the e-book.

A polite cough was enough to cover her reaction at hearing the man speak because his voice was exactly what she thought the main male character in her book would sound like, It sounded slightly French too, possibly. And he was either in Engineering, Operations or Security, of course. An awkward moment if she ever had to admit it for sure.

Taking another sip of her wine, Wren was mid-sip with the stem up and felt his attention slid over to her, so she pulled it away from her lips and placed it back on the counter before turning her attention to him. "Bonjour, Lieutenant.", she said with a smile and a courteous nod.

He hadn't expected the greeting, not really. The word infiltrated the space between them like a pebble dropped into the still water of a pond--Bonjour--and for a heartbeat, the room seemed to lean closer to listen.

JB turned toward her, one forearm resting on the bar now, his posture loose but his eyes alert in that quiet, observant way that always gave him away as someone who'd spent too many nights squinting at grainy surveillance feeds. Her voice had curled around him like cigarette smoke--familiar, unexpected, and not wholly safe.

"Bonsoir," he returned, letting the word untwine his accent--whetted, soft, and a fair dose of Haitian French threading throughout.

His eyes found the wine glass first, then her hands, then finally her face. His eyes lingered on her the way a man might linger over a coastline he'd only ever seen on old maps--careful, and quietly venerational. She was taller than most, he guessed, maybe just shy of his own height when standing. Copper-red hair spilled past her shoulders, loose but disciplined enough to be tucked behind her ears, catching the bar's honeyed light like it was made for her alone. Her skin held the easy warmth of Barisa's sunlit beach terraces--light brown, naturally tanned, scattered through with freckles that looked like a constellation flung across a clear, night sky. Her lips, full and inviting, commanded JB's attention on her petite face. But it was her eyes that held him there, pinned and almost weightless--blue-grey, restless seas beneath a misty dawn.

"Comment vas-tu ce soir, madame?" JB asked, switching to the informal with a softness to his voice.

"Bien. Fatigue mais je vais bien, et toi? Parles-tu anglais?", Wren replied back, suddenly keenly aware of the way he had just looked at her. She could also feel the quiet authority that emanated from him, and against her better judgement, found herself enjoying it. "I'm Wren, one of the Diplomatic team." She stuck her hand out.

"Oui, je parle anglais," he said, slipping back into it as though it were a old, comfortable jacket. He took her hand--not the brisk, perfunctory shake of officers gathered at a briefing, but a measured clasp, warm and certain. His thumb brushed her knuckles before he let go, like he was confirming something real and living beneath his fingers.

"Jean-Baptiste," he said low, nearly blended with the light chatter of the bar. "Tactical."

Wren didn't exactly jerk her hand away from his at the touch, but once the handshake was done she moved her hand back to near the glass stem. That feeling she just felt was confusing, like an electric shock mixed with a sudden but momentary craving for it to continue before he took his hand away.

"It's good to meet you, Jean-Baptiste." Looking back to the glass and taking another small sip of her drink, "Tactical? I'm guessing you must be fairly new then. You'll enjoy being here, I guarantee it."

He tilted his head slightly at her remark, as if he were trying it on in his mind to see the fit.

"I've never served aboard a starship before," he said, slow and low. "But I'm pretty good at finding my footing in unfamiliar places."

The bartender set his negroni down with a gentle clink. JB reached for it, wrapping his fingers around the glass in a way that seemed borderline reverential. He held it there for a moment, studying the dark burnished red of the liquid. Then he lifted it to his lips and took a slow sip.

"Not bad," he murmured, eyes on the glass before shifting back to Wren. "Though I think the company will make it better."

His gaze found her again, steady but softened now, like he was cradling some fragile crystal between his palms, half-expecting it might break. In truth, he suspected he was the one most liable to break. Since Jacqueline had walked out out of his life nearly four years before, he'd lost the quiet courage it took to speak to women--especially those who sparked something restless and bright inside of him. It was as if she'd taken a vital piece of him when she went, a piece he'd once relied on without thinking. But now and then, in small flickers, he felt that missing part stir back to life. And in this moment--in the serene and safe warmth of Wren's blue-grey gaze--he felt it returning, pulse by hesitant pulse.

"So, Wren," he ventured, shifting his posture to give her his complete attention. "What do you do on the Diplomatic team?"

The comment about company stained her cheeks pink with a blush that reached out past her freckles. It wasn't like she herself hadn't low key wanted the company as well, but Wren hadn't actually anticipated talking to anyone tonight let alone someone whose voice could calm an angry sea and command an army at the same time, the rich ebony tone of his skin that would most likely glisten after a long time in the sun, and those careful hands that were cradling the glass like it would break any second...

Wren had to stop reading those kinds of books.

After realising she'd been looking at him without answering his questions, she turned back on her professionalism to half, she was off duty after all. "Sorry, I don't really have much of a title beyond that of a Diplomatic Officer at the moment," her British accent was prominent as she pronounced 'moment', "but I am currently running reports and gathering information on some previous missions here on the Astrea, anything that might become useful as we move forward."

JB listened, his eyes holding hers through every syllable, as though he was trying to learn the shape of each word in her mouth. He caught the soft lilt of her accent on moment, the way it rounded the air and left citrus-like tang.

"Sounds like vital work," he said, low enough to be mistaken for a private confession. "The sort that doesn't get its name up in light--but holds everything together when the lights go out."

He flicked his gaze from her face to the e-book resting on the bar. "Good book?"

"Every little bit behind the scenes doesn't go unnoticed by the right people at the right time," Wren replied with a courteous smile before looking at the book she'd completely abandoned when he started talking. "I'm only a handful of pages into it so far but its going good. It's called Emma, and the author is someone named Jane Austen from I think the 19th century?"

Books definitely weren't her forte but she enjoyed them nonetheless, "I'd be happy to lend it to you after I've finished, if you're into that kind of classic romantic contemporary feel? Obviously if you read, of course?"

He shifted slightly closer, elbow resting on the bar, chin tipping down as his gaze stayed ready on hers.

"I've read it," he admitted, eyes narrowing with the faintest mischief before softening again. "Back in Marseille--I spent a summer there. Pre-Academy. Holed-up in an old flat above a bakery. The smell of bread and coffee coming through the floorboards every morning."

He paused, the memory passing across his expression like a slow mascaret.

"A friend pressed a whole stack of Austen into my hands," he went on, his thumb absently brushing the base of his glass. "She said I needed to learn about 'schemes of the heart'--said I spent too much time reading about religion and spirituality to understand anything about real love."

He lifted his eyes again, catching hers with that gentle gravity he seemed to carry naturally.

"I suppose I didn't learn as much as I should have," he added. "But I remember Emma--and the way she tries to orchestrate everyone else's hearts before she understands her own."

Now sideways and facing Wren, he took another sip from his negroni, setting it down on the bar with a clink. He set rested his chin on his hand as he gazed at her. "Thank you for the offer," he said in a warm tone tinged with old-world courtesy. "But I think I'd rather hear you talk about it. After all... reading a book tells you the story. Hearing someone describe it... that tells you them."

"A summer in Marseille above a bakery with all those smells rising up of a morning, pair that with a freshly brewed coffee and I think it would be as close to heaven as you could get." Wren had been to France on a number of occasions escorting her father and learning from him, but she hadn't been fortunate enough to to go to Marseille, so it sounded like a dream.

She mimicked him with her chin on her hand and looked at him with a slight smile, holding his own gaze for a moment before speaking again and shifting her position from one crossed leg to the other, "So you're already saying you'd want to see me again, even though you don't know much aside from the fact I'm in the Diplomatic department?" Her light voice was still slightly professional but slowly winding down to a more casual tone as she relaxed more. "How is your negroni?"

"Well, that's a little too forward, isn't it?" he suggested, looking for something in her blue-grey eyes.

"Not forward in the slightest, I'm afraid," Wren shook her head. Okay, maybe it had been. She wasn't even sure if what she was doing was flirting or just being friendly. "I was just picking up on you saying you'd want to hear me talk about it, that's all."


~tbc~

========

Ensign Wrenleigh Reed
Diplomatic Officer
USS Astrea


Lieutenant J.G. Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil
Assistant Chief Security Officer
USS Astrea

RSS Feed