Mercy, or Ruin
Posted on Thu Aug 14th, 2025 @ 11:24pm by Lieutenant JG Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil & Ensign Wrenleigh Reed
Edited on on Thu Sep 4th, 2025 @ 8:48pm
3,316 words; about a 17 minute read
Mission:
The Menagerie II
Location: The Driftlight, Barisa Prime
Timeline: Evening (MD008, 1930 Hours)
The restaurant sat low on the water like it had been breathed into place. The wood was polished, likely oiled regularity, and glowed under the spill of the warm hanging lanterns--rectangular paper orbs strung in arcs between glittering brass poles. Small, sculpted lanterns flickered in the evening breeze on each table, their flames low behind frosted glass.
Underwater lights glowed cobalt and jade beneath the wharf, casting the sea in shifting patterns that danced across the faces of diners. Silver fish darted through the light beams, their little bodies impossibly fast.
A string trio played in a nearby alcove. They played a soft and wordless music that folded right into the restaurant's atmosphere.
Jean-Baptiste sat beside Wren on the dock's edge, feet dangling just above the water. He nursed a citrusy-smelling drink with gin and a sprig of mint sticking out of it like a green antenna.
He leaned back on his hands and looked up.
"You know," he said, "I'm might actually miss being on Barisa Prime once we have to leave."
"Well, I'm sure we can always come back to it at a later stage," Wren said with a smile. "It is definitely one of the more beautiful places we can get stuck on, right?" She took a seat on the edge of the dock and could only just touch the very tip of her toes if she stretched.
There was a Long Island Iced Tea sitting next to Wren and she sipped it on occasion and enjoying the taste of it. "Never rule out not being able to come back."
The underwater lights made it feel like they were floating. Not on a dock, not on a planet, but just above some vast, glowing mirror. Every now and then, a fish broke the surface with a plink, as if they were trying to punctuate some unspoken sentence.
He turned to look at her--at the way her legs swung gently, the clink of ice in her glass when she sipped. She looked content, but alert, like the moment could expand or vanish at any given time.
"Alright," he said, tone easy, testing. "Let's assume we have to share a runabout together--just the two of us. What music would you have playing?"
His eyes landed softly on her delicate facial features before meandering up to her eyes. They were the colour of a half-stormed sky--the blue still hanging on, but grey waiting behind it.
"Just the two of us?" Wren raised a brow and a smile played across her lips at the mention of it, "Well, because I don't know what you listen to, I would have to go with some sort of music you can chill and read a book to, so something like jazz or classical." It was quite normal to be listening to jazz and classical as a preference, right?
Jean-Baptiste let out a low, appreciative hum. "That's pretty solid," he said. "Lyrics can be distracting--unless you're looking for distraction."
He took another sip of his drink and glanced at the sprig of mint that was no wilting in the ice. The dock creaked beneath them. It was enough to remind him that the world hadn't frozen around this moment, even if it felt like it had.
"I think I'd want something warm. Piano maybe. Or old Terran soul--you know, the kind where the singer sounds like they've survived something."
A fish leapt out of the water--nothing but a blur of silver, then gone. A ripple carried out over the water and gently massaged one of the nearby posts.
He looked sideways at her again. "You ever get that?" he asked. "Like you've survived something, but you don't know what to name it?"
The fish jumping out of the water had distracted her momentarily before Wren turned her attention back to Jean-Baptiste, "I've listened to that kind of music, yes, and it's one of those kinds of rhythms where you can close your eyes and just feel it..."
Her blue-grey eyes focused on his dark ones, "I don't think I can really identify with that kind of feeling though, like you've survived something." There was so much left to uncover behind the facade he had firmly in place, but if the Fates willed it, she would be there when the walls came down.
The waiter appeared quietly, his footsteps making almost no sound as he approached. He was young, cheeks red from the ocean air, and held his hands behind his back as though he were afraid to intrude.
"Excuse me," he said, with the soft politeness of one who had been raised well. "Your table is ready, whenever you're ready."
Jean-Baptiste nodded, the moment quietly sealing itself. "Thank you."
He stood and offered his hand to Wren. Her fingers were cool from her drink, but strong as she rose to her feet. For a second, they lingered like that--his calloused hand in hers, a string trio still playing somewhere behind them, and the refulgent water like something out of a dream.
Wren looked at their entwined hand and smiled a genuine smile. Something about holding his hand was... almost familiar, but she couldn't quite put her finger on why. The entire moment just felt right. "Thank you," she said quietly as she stood up and steadied herself.
Later, after the meal and the laughter and the shared silence of dessert, they wandered down to the beach once more.
The stars were out in full--unrushed and pristine. Overhead, constellations JB only half-recognized twinkled faintly, pinned to the sky like grains of sugar on velvet canopy. The sea rolled in and out, as if Barisa Prime herself was snoozing. Small light poles stuck in the sand behind them, casting just enough ambient light to see the waves.
"I've really enjoyed tonight, thank you for inviting me out. It was nice to have a kind of a carefree night where work wasn't discussed." Wren found herself gravitating towards JB and wanting to be close to him. "I really think you should've tried that chocolate cake though, it was amazing. And the dinner and the drinks too."
Jean-Baptiste folded down beside her, one elbow propped in the sand, the other hand resting gently on his thigh. "You're right, Wren," he replied, noticing her calves for the first time. "The lobster thermidor was filling, and it left no space for dessert. It was one of the most memorable meals I think I've ever shared."
He glanced up. Stars blinked like that had for eons--distant and cruel and perfect. A thousand thousand light-years wide, and yet no closer for staring.
"Do you ever think," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "that space is only beautiful when you're not in it?"
Wren could feel her cheeks flush red as she dipped her head down a bit to cover it up, and she let out a quiet laugh at the double meaning of what he said. She leaned in to rest her head on his shoulder and looked up, first toward the same sky he was looking at, then moved slightly to briefly glance at him, "It's beautiful from a distance and then up close you see all its faults and problems." Still, her hand hadn't moved from his thigh, she just let it lay there in wait for his to claim it.
Her hand was warm through the fabric of his trousers, fingers still and provident--like a promise left on a doorstep.
He didn't move at first. Just let the moment breathe. The tide eased in again, folding over itself at a crawl. He watched the stars not for what they were, but for what they gave him--the excuse not to look at her too soon.
Because this--this was not the kind of closeness he was used to. It wasn't tactical and it certainly wasn't fleeting. It wasn't born of grief or need or proximity. This was earned. And he could feel it burning in his chest, asking to be given passage.
"I used to think," he said slowly, "that getting close to someone felt like walking into a room you didn't belong in. Like maybe you'd break something just by being there."
He turned to her, and the weight of her head on his shoulder nearly undid him. It wasn't heavy. It was real.
Her eyes were already on him. It was the kind of look that asks nothing but gives everything.
He reached for her hand--not sudden, not shy, just honest. His palm pressed lightly over hers, his thumb brushing the top of her knuckles, grounding himself in that gentle contact.
"Wren," he said, and it came out soft and serious, as though her name was the key to something that had been hidden from him.
Then he leaned in. Not hurried. No sweeping music. Just the space between them dissolving by inches.
Wren thought for sure her heart beating the tattoo against her ribcage would be a dead giveaway to what she was feeling when he started to lean in, and knowing what he wanted was the same as her.
She bit her bottom lip slightly before replying with his own name, offering him a (what she hoped) flirtatious smile after it, "Jean,"
Their faces had turned toward each other, her brow hovering just above his shoulder--close enough her could feel the warmth of her breath in the crook of his neck.
He silently closed the gap between their lips--his gaze rising and falling from her fathomless eyes, to her mouth where her lips--slightly parted and full, as if the summer sun had just ripened a cluster of berries--waited. That final inch between them vibrated. He was caught in her gravity--an ache budding in his chest like mercy, or ruin.
The kiss was quiet. Not hesitant--but completely lacking any armour. A form of stillness bloomed in him the moment their lips met, as if someone had opened a door in a room that had been locked for centuries. Heat spread through his chest and neck--not urgent, just there, as if a dormant star had come to life somewhere inside him.
Her mouth was soft. Salt clung faintly to her skin, and the scent of her hair--like citrus and something earthy--wreathed into his breath.
To Wren, it felt like the world around them had ceased to exist and they were the only beings that mattered. When JB kissed her, it felt electric and sweet and soft, like buttery melt in your mouth chocolate. Everything in that moment felt right and thee were no pressures of careers, families, nothing.
His hand tightened around hers without thinking. Not possessive. Not claiming. But holding. Perhaps it was his body's way of saying, Yes, I feel it too..
For one heartbeat, then another, the noise of the world--the tide, the buzz of lamps, the distant sound of the restaurant--fell away completely. The kiss lingered like the silence that might follow a deeply personal confession. It wasn't a rush, and it wasn't a blaze. It was slower than that. Slower, and more complete.
When they finally pulled apart, his eyes stayed closed for a moment longer than hers did.
Jean-Baptiste found himself lost once more in those eyes. Like seawater seen through fog--endless, muted, and painfully honest. They were still framed by an unnamed constellation of freckles that had been scattered soft as tea leaves at the bottom of a porcelain cup. He wanted to memorize them, in case this moment was all he'd get.
Even though the world had returned around them, he wasn't ready to look at anything that wasn't her.
The moment Jean-Baptiste stopped kissing her, Wren felt the magic sparking between them fizzle out, but in the best way. It had elicited and brought to the surface unknown feelings that she loved the feeling of and wanted to explore more. With him. No one else.
Opening her eyes and slowly blinking, she couldn't help but allow the soft, happy smile that so desperately wanted to escape to creep up on her face. Her gaze shifted to his eyes and got lost at the intense yet soft and kind look behind them as they looked back at her. It was almost a scene straight out of a romantic tale.
In the moment, she was happy to not say anything, just look at him and smile.
He found himself floating on a rowboat somewhere in the storm of her eyes. He discovered it impossible to speak, and so he just breathed--as if words might somehow break the thing forming between them.
The warmth of her hand under his lingered, her fingers unmoving but certain. That minute contact had now become the axis of his awareness. Her shoulder, light against his bicep, seemed to pull his whole body toward her.
He shifted slightly in the sand, again closing the space between them by inches. It was a cautious gravity that felt delicate--as though a strong breeze might fracture it. His palm slid from her hand to the small of her back, fingers brushing the cotton of her dress, then resting there--tentative, but wanting more.
Acutely aware of his hand placement, Wren kind of liked the touch, the familiarity and how gentle it was. She wanted to kiss him again, even for him to kiss her, but didn't want to appear too eager for it. The moment was there to go for it, yet she wanted to be respectful and simply chose to enjoy the moment instead.
The tide had gone quiet for a long moment as JB froze. His pulse kicked hard against his throat.
She hadn't move away. She hadn't pulled back. If anything, she'd leaned closer, just barely.
Jean-Baptiste stared straight ahead, where the waves combed themselves again and again into the sand. For a half-second, he saw himself from outside his body--too big, too silent, a man taught all his life to endure but never expect. And he felt the old script trying to crawl back into him. She's being kind. She doesn't mean it like that. You'll ruin it if you misread this.
He blinked.
Wren's hand was still there. Her warmth hadn't changed.
She wasn't pulling away.
He swallowed.
And then quietly, in the same voice he used to ask God for one more hour during those sleepless nights on Bryn'kal III, he whispered, almost to himself:
"Pa gate sa." ("Don't ruin this.")
He turned back to her. No theatrics this time. No clever lines. Just the simple act of letting go of his fear.
The second kiss came different.
There was no lead-in, no build-up. He leaned in and kissed her like he'd finally allowed himself to want something. Not hungering, and definitely not urgent. But with the deep, searching reverence of a man who'd been a long time lost in the black and had just now stumbled into light.
His hand slid further behind her, splaying gently at the base of her spine, pulling her against him like he needed to know she was real.
As he kissed her, Wren leaned into it and let her shoulders relax for a moment before she adjusted her position to have arms wrapped around his shoulders as she kissed him back. There was no urgency, just a need to feel alive and wanted by someone who liked her.
She pulled back after a moment to look at the man in front of her while she lightly traced a pattern on the back of his neck. Under the sea of freckles, Wrens face had flushed red with something like embarrassment from enjoying herself and she gave a small giggle that caused little crinkles at the corners of her eyes.
"I, um..." Her words faltered slightly because she had no clue what to say that wouldn't ruin the perfect moment.
His breath caught in his chest--not because he was winded, but only because something in him had cracked open. And it was something deep. All he could do was whisper her name again. "Wren." He didn't say it for effect. He said it because it was all he trusted his voice to carry.
Jean-Baptiste did not pull away from her. Because her warmth was still pressed into his side, and her hand--God, her hand--was still laying flat on his chest. Still trusting. And because something inside him had begun to tilt.
"I'm not..." he began, then stopped. "I'm not always good at knowing what's okay. Or when."
"It's okay," Wren said quietly in response with a smile that was reaching up to her eyes. With her hand now on his chest, she could feel his heart almost beating in time with her own. "We can take this slow."
He searched her eyes and could only find truth behind those blue-grey fixtures, and at once felt his hesitancy and self-doubt draining. Here was someone he could be open to--no hidden corners, no veils. She would be the warm sunshine to his years-long exile in the shadows.
He placed a delicate kiss on her forehead, as if even the contact from his lips might cause her to dissolve.
Leaning back, he gently pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear and lowered his eyes. "Thank you," he managed, his voice slightly above a whisper. When his gaze returned to hers, he found himself surrendering once again to her pull.
There was a slight breeze that picked up and fluttered some strands of her hair out from behind her ear and into their faces, making Wren laugh slightly as JB kissed her forehead. It was an odd feeling of affection but one that she could come to find as the most intimate without actually being intimate. Brushing the hair away, Wren continued to look at him with the smile on her face, "What do we do now?"
Jean-Baptiste let her words hang for a long moment. He rolled the words around in his head: What do we do now? There were a thousand answers. Most of them unimportant. All of them too small.
"We wait for the tide to come back in," he said eventually, a half-smile forming on his lips. "Or we can let the rest of the night decide."
"I like that idea, just rolling with however the night goes." Wren replied in a soft tone that mimicked his smile. She kissed him again, this time making it count.
Her lips lingered on his just long enough to feel him shift. This time, it wasn't hesitance that answered her--it was heat, the kind that had been banked low in him for years, managed carefully--almost never trusted.
Jean-Baptiste leaned into her with reverence and thirst braided tightly together, one hand at the small of her back, the other coming up to cradle her face. The kiss deepened, no longer cautious, no longer asking for permission. It was just two people meeting where language had finally gave out.
Their bodies pressed, hers aligning with his in a way that was all breath and instinct and proximity. His chest rose against hers, and for the briefest of moments, they breathed the same air. There was nothing else. Just this--her heartbeat close to his, the warmth of her curves against him, the way her fingers curled into the fabric at his side like she was anchoring herself.
They stayed like that--pressed close, wrapped in each other's warmth beneath the growing silence of the late evening, as the tide began its slow return.
Ensign Wrenleigh Reed
Diplomatic Officer
USS Astrea
Lieutenant J.G. Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil
Assistant Chief Security Officer
USS Astrea
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