JL | FADM Red, Capt Dunross - BQ Commander, SEC 31 Director | "Zdravstvuyte"

Posted on 241707.30 @ 4:33pm by Fleet Admiral Blyx Red & Captain Aleksandr Dunross

Mission: Hush [BQ Plot]
Location: Cold Station Theta

Aleksandr stepped out of the docking ring and looked around. He left his usual compliment of staff aboard the Ballon Rouge to monitor the agents and operatives in the area. He waited until everyone was out before he proceeded on to his task. Aleksandr’s objective was a personal matter and he did not need everyone and their mother to know his business. His gait was smooth and his casual manner allowed him to blend into the passing throng and his eigengrau-tone clothing completed his non-descript profile. One last command to his aide that he was not to be interrupted save an emergency also allowed him to focus on the singleness of his task. He was here to see Blyx.

At first, he thought to approach her with business, then segue that into a personal discussion. However, Aleksandr had a strict policy to not mix business with pleasure or personal matters. That’s how secrets get told to the wrong people. Then he thought to approach her in some social arena where they just happen to be at the same time. However, that wouldn’t work either. Their discussion needed to be frank and authentic which none of the two situations would allow. So, he would go to her, just her and him, like a man.

“Computer, where is Admiral Red,” Aleksandr said approaching an intersection near her quarters.

“Fleet Admiral Red is in her quarters,” replied the feminine voice.

“Spasiba,” Aleksandr murmured and continued down the hall.


---

Home was rife with a cacophony of sound, all of it pleasant and speaking volumes about the woman hidden within. A lilting aria from La Boheme chorused through the entire living area, her own vocals rich as she followed along in the beautiful Italian Puccini had left behind as a brilliant legacy. It was all punctuated by the hiss and sizzle of food being cooked. Everything from scratch, the replicator had been abandoned for the moment. Part of Cold Station Theta's charms was the fact that traders came and went from all walks of the galaxy and with them came delicacies from Earth, various colonies, and beyond. Fresh chicken and butter sauteed with garlic and at least half a dozen herbs she'd chosen at random. Rosemary and basil were definitely among them, probably sage too if her nose was right. Either way, the flavor note was near perfection.

A cork popped, her hands wrapped around a wine bottle that had been promised as some vintage or another. It didn't matter. Cooking for one meant that the only person who mattered was numero uno; Blyx. Even then she couldn't bring herself to drink straight from the bottle, the mere thought of it made her mouth and nose wrinkle in distaste. "Dreadful." She said in response to her own thoughts and leaned a silk shift covered hip against the counter as she poured herself a glass of the vibrant sanguine liquid. Somehow, over the music and the sound of her culinary delights, she heard the softest hiss of a door shutting and the baby fine hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle.

Aleksandr approached her door with trepidation and thought to press the chime, but that was a fleeting thought as he did what he always did and used the master code. The skills and movement of an intelligence agent were not forgotten as Aleksandr slipped inside. His tradecraft has been his security blanket and the use of it became subconscious that he used them without realizing it. Still bound up by all the emotions surging within him, his stoic shell shattered by the sight, sound, and aroma about him. The sight of her proved to be his catharsis as he began to slowly walk towards her with only a small bag hanging by his side. Emotions played on his face, that ran in concert with the music playing. He wages a war to regain control and won by the skin of teeth. It was only then he could utter a single word.

“Blyx.”


The sound of her name, in that voice, ran a discourse of shivers up the length of her spine and along the elegant line of her neck. It rested there, shooting a degree of discomfort and exhilaration all throughout the main frame of her diminutive body. "Aleksandr Romyev Dunross." She hissed, the name burning her tongue as if she'd licked the hot sauce spoon straight from the pot. Turning around wasn't an option, looking at him would have been entirely way too much. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Pleasure? Hardly. He'd been gone for so long, punctuating the time with further tragedy and strife when he'd come in an attempt to claim her beloved son. It hadn't exactly been an escape, but they'd left him once again and returned to the fold of the Federation. The rest was history written in the stars, unremarkable, and long forgotten in a litany of seconds, hours, minutes, days, weeks... She sighed. Setting her wine glass down untouched and braced her hands on the cool counter top. A stray raven curl fell from her messy bun to rest against the bare skin of her shoulder. Every movement, every breath, spoke of a woman fighting to control a demon as it clawed its way up from the it of her belly, through her chest, and threatened to rain hellfire and brimstone down upon the man standing a few paces behind her.

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

There was supposed to be a May wedding with smiles and gifts and a toast to fortune favoring the bold. There was supposed to be a happy family, one where the children embraced their father's heritage and learned their mother's crafty responses towards life's bizarre situations. They were supposed to grow old together, loving one another. They'd grown old, alright, but far away from one another's embrace. Now all she was left with was scorn and contempt and a dream of what may have been had he not run out on her, on the Endeavour, that night almost twenty six years ago.

He stood there, strapped in the silence that hovered between them. Words streamed through his head as he sought to catch on to what to say. He could not begrudge her unwillingness to face him. Many a night these past years he used a bottle of vodka to serve as a nepenthe to keep him warm and send him into oblivion—unwilling to face his own self. His eyes set on the back of her neck and the lose curl dangling nearby. Aleksandr rocked in place, suddenly struck by indecision. Only she could do this to him. What he wanted most to do, he knew was the last thing he should do—now. The first thing that needed to be done was often the most difficult, especially for a man in his profession.

“I come in peace,” Aleksandr finally said, “I want…I hope that we can talk.”

"Talk?" She asked, her lip threatening to curl. Blyx's weight shifted from one hip to the other as she considered his words and the... Was that nervousness and apprehension? Her posture straightened as she heard the out of character shift of his usually sure, husky voice. Finally she turned to him, smoothing the expanse of her shift and silently praying a robe would magically come to cover her. Or a Snuggie. Yeah. A Snuggie would have been even better. At least then she'd have become a shapeless mass that was a hell of a lot less likely to launch herself across the kitchen to claw the eyeballs from his skull. His eyes. Her own flicked in that direction, studying the depths of those beautiful eyes likely in search of his motive. There wasn't any to be found, aside from what could only be described as a long and deeply entrenched sadness. "What happened, Alek? The twins no longer interested?" She almost hated herself for the ice that crept into her voice and the words, so callous, she heard herself saying. He'd run up the proverbial white flag, and here she was waging war even though she knew it would have been so much easier to have him removed. Something kept her from calling mayday. Something kept her standing there while the chicken began to burn.

Twins, what twins, Aleksandr thought to himself. His brow furrowed and joined a deep frown as he searched his memory for the twins Blyx was talking about. The memory hit him like a spoondrift as he remembered the Grey twins. Aleksandr reached back all those years ago when he was an active deep undercover agent. Aleksandr’s deep undercover identify was a pirate. Whenever an agent goes in as deep as Aleksandr was, there is a danger for the agent to go native. A brief smile at the memory of the Grey twins, more for the friendship and camaraderie of being a part of his crew than for the sporadic times they visited his bed. However, that was a long time ago and the despite the good feeling he felt about the twins, he also remembered their death. It was a shame that such free-spirited individuals died too young.

“A dance with the devil leads to a long walk through hell,” was Aleksandr’s orphic response. He started to say more when the sharp smell from the kitchen tickled his nose, “And burned chicken…”

"Chicken... Shit!" She swore sharply and turned on a dime to scramble for the pan the chicken had been cooking in. The once clear liquid of melted butter had turned brown and tarry, chunks of matter promised that everything had burned. The list of tragedies grew longer as she dropped the entire thing, sending it clattering to the floor and her tossing additional swears, all of them quite colorful, into the atmosphere. She'd burned her hand, distractedly grabbing the pan's metal handle without using a towel or pot holder. The flesh of her palm was angry and red as she studied it, not unlike the rawness of her heart when it came to Alek. "Fuck. Just... Fuck." Her head shook, torn between getting her hand under cold water and stopping to pick up the mess on the floor.

That's when the levee broke.

She turned on him, fast like a barracuda, and within a couple strides she was in his face. Her bare toes, adorably adorned with a perfect French manicure, brushed against his boots and she straightened towards heights she wishes she could have obtained, "You. You did this. You're the reason for all of this!" Blyx's voice was high, not quite shrilling, but high as she yelled at him and cradled her injured hand to her chest, "Now you want to talk? You want to come here, unannounced, and talk?! Why, Alek?! Why now?! I owe you absolutely nothing and you! YOU!" She choked on the rawness of her voice, her eyes blazing furiously as she locked them with his, "You owe me a life! TWO if you recall!Jesus... Four if you count Aine and Colt, but two first and foremost because you destroyed mine and ended that poor baby's with your selfishness and your ... your..." She flailed as she fought to find the words, "Your stupidity!" That would work. She regretted it as soon as she said it, but the pain bubbled forth like a fountain. He'd wanted to talk, after all, hadn't he? No matter how ridiculous it must have looked, such a little woman in her night gown practically hopping up and down with her anger against a man that big and burly, the scene went on. It would have been comical if the topic hadn't been so bleak and dire. The problem was that she cared too much, harboring some long forged emotion that the man had claimed for himself all those years ago. Try as she had, and she really and truly had, she couldn't shake it. She couldn't shake him.

Aleksandr watched her moved and winced as Blyx burnt her hand. He chuckled to himself when Blyx turned on him and let loose her fury. Yes, there was the virago he loved and adored. He readily agreed to everything she said and despite feeling the heat, Aleksandr thought she glowed in the fervor of her anger. He’d always known she was passionate woman in love and in anger. It assuaged the recondite mystery of why, after all these years, he could not simply forget her. He stood in place and endured her verbal barrage like a man and did not move. He knew this was going to be difficult. Talking to their son was easy in comparison. However, throughout her wrath, Aleksandr searched her face for a scintilla of affection, searching to see if there was anything left. His eyes were drawn to her hand.

“Here, let me help,” Aleksandr said, his usually harsh Russian accent taking a soft tone that his subordinates would never recognize. “Here…”

Slowly, he put his package down before taking her by the crook of her arm to a nearby sofa. He slowly guided her down to sit next to him as he reached inside the deep pockets of his top coat and brought out a medical kit. Using one hand he opened it and picked up a hypro-spray, set it to relieve pain, then used a dermal regenerator to heal the burn. He looked silently into her gorgeous sapphire blue eyes as he worked.

Initially Blyx tore her arm from his grasp, but at second go something in his voice told her to let him do whatever it was he was going to do. She was leery to say the least, watching him with feral eyes as he worked to fix her hand. In part she expected to fall asleep, wake up suddenly far away from everything she'd ever known in some sort of hold he'd created. The sleep never came, just the quiet reprieve from pain that he'd designed. The redness of the scald faded, disappearing into yet another bad memory cast between them. "What do you have to say for yourself?" She asked, when she should have said thank you. Her tone, however, was far quieter and possibly even able to be considered soft. Age had taken a toll on the sharpness of his features. He'd always been an unorthadox version of what was considered handsome. To her, he'd always be beautiful with his wry smile and heavily squared jaw.

He set the medkit aside and brought her hand to his lips, kissing the very spot where she was burned.

“I am a dirty rotten scoundrel that does not deserve a hint of your attention, much less your love and affection, and I submit my humblest apologies to the mother of my children for allowing my duty to come before my family,” Aleksandr said, sounding somewhat practiced as it took practice to admit when he is wrong.

“My mother…died, a year ago…and with her dying breath, she made me swear on her grave to seek you out and deal with the consequences of my…foolishness.” He let her hand go and leaned forward, hands steepled together. “A year has passed since her death, and now I am here to keep a promise I made to at least one woman that I loved.”

Her palm burned again, this time radiating from the tenderness of his lips as he pressed them to her flesh. It forced her to blink, to slowly withdraw her hand from his grasp as she processed, and savored, the feeling of his affections. What she hadn't expected were his words, the sorrowful soulful softness of them as he explained himself like a boy being chastised by a school nun. Blyx nodded and drew a heavy breath, "I don't know what to tell you beyond being sorry that your mother passed." She replied as she released it, "Part of me is also sorry that it took her death for you to want to make amends, or at least try to."

Expelling a deep breath as he leaned back and spread out on his side of the sofa, Aleksandr crossed his legs and set a steady gaze on her. With all the rush of emotions of seeing one another after so long apart, Aleksandr finally allowed himself to relax. He did feel remorseful, but also resigned to whatever was to happen. His Russian heritage and DNA dealt in realities and he was prepared to handle whatever came next. He nodded in thanks for her condolences and pushed aside the regret that the two most important women in his life have never met. That thought caused him to wonder how the two would get along, especially being of similar temperament and personality. Aleksandr quirked a skewed grin at that before letting it quickly die away.

“Everyone have a breaking point,” Aleksandr began, “I could say that it is my Russian stubbornness that got in the way, or my Dunross pride to never apologize or admit when I’m wrong, or even the excuse of my work to prevent me from finding the time…”

His leg rocked in a steady rhythm as he paused, he shook his head, then nodded emphatically. “No, Blyx, none of those…excuses…would be satisfactory. The truth is the only solution. I let regret, shame, and fear of rejection be my guide. I hid in my work, allowing it to become everything. Thinking by being diligent in my work, I am not just doing my duty to the Federation, but also to my family by standing in the gap between those that would seek to destroy us and the family that I love.”

The movement of his leg stop and Aleksandr blinks before finishing, giving her a penetrating stare.
“I love my work. I am good at it. I want to do it as long as I am able. But it is not enough…without you.”

"Without me?" She asked in demand for clarification. Both eyebrows were lifted now as she leaned forward to reach her hand to his forehead, checking for an elevated temperature. There was none. Just the coolness of the man trying his best to become comfortable in an otherwise tense and provocative situation. She knew he was hurt, nervous, and uncomfortable. She knew he'd come so close with his heart on his sleeve and that it wasn't something in his makeup to do. Aleksandr Dunross, at least the one she'd known before, took what he wanted hard, fast, and left it at all. There was no denying him. This version, this quieter, older, perhaps even wiser, version was different. He gave her a choice, and one that she was gong to have to make quickly if she ever wanted to survive the night with a chance for sleep at some point. It wasn't an easy choice, not with the anger she still felt, but it was likely that anger would remain as a slow burn for the rest of her God given life. She'd used it to accomplish so much. Her children had been raised right, carefully, and now both had promising careers in Starfleet... But what was left for her? As a five-star Admiral her time was rapidly growing near the point where she'd be forced to move up to higher office or retire completely. And then what? Lonely dinners singing La Boheme in solo with cheap wine sold as the good stuff? Her head shook at such a thought.

Her question reverbed in his ear, mixing with the loud thump of his pulse. He wanted to say yes, dammit, take me back. I know it’s been a long time, but there is so much life left to live, and I want to do it with you. For God’s sake woman, can’t you see how you hold my very life in the palm of your hands? Instead, Aleksandr drew a deep breath, broke eye contact and turned away. Eyes searching for something but not finding it until he returned to her face.

“Da, Blyx Mikhailovna,” Aleksandr said, “I am tired of living this life without you.”


It took her a moment to realize what it was that he was saying, what it was that his words meant. Again she blew a sigh, working on digesting the words he spoke and the sincerity he offered. "You seemed pretty comfortable the last decade and change." Blyx retorted, shamed by her own quick ability to snark instead of comfort. Her fingers, however, seemed to have a life of their own and left his forehead in favor of brushing her knuckles against his. It wasn't that sarcastic motion of touch from before, there was something more... Tender.

The touch was a thirst-quenching relief to him. He took her hand in his, holding it firm, but not to cause any pain, fingers intertwined. He leaned closer, her scent intoxicating, and spoke just about a whisper.

“It was a pretty damned long walk, and I am Russian, I have a pretty thick skull,” Aleksandr said giving her a smile that reached his eyes for the first time in more than a decade and brought her hand to his lips again. “And it took me awhile to find some mint chip ice cream.”


"Mint chip, huh?" So many nights had been spent with the flavor seasoning the moment. The fact he'd even stopped to remember her affinity for the frozen treat, let alone hunted it down, brought a smile to her face. It lit her eyes, tugged at her heart and soul, and shook her head. "You're an ass." She tutted, uncrossing her legs as she shifted her weight in his direction. "This... This can't end up like last time." The raven maned Admiral warned, though in her heart she was begging for an outcome favorably different. "I need a reason to trust you, Alek, more than just mint chip and your charm."

He squeezed her hand and closed his eyes as the display of her affection was pure joy. He basked in the glow of it before sobering up to fully understand what she said. He took a moment to gaze into her eyes, seeing the intent of her words. Aleksandr nodded to himself, and stood up. He shed his top coat and tunic before bringing her up with him. He drew her in close, his arms enfolding her, and his hands on her with a firm grip.

“Then marry me, Mikhailovna,” Aleksandr said, sternly but softly, “Let me make an honest woman out of you and I will never leave your side. But if I do, you have my permission to shoot me dead, for I will have been unfit to live.”

Blinking, Blyx struggled to comprehend what it was he was saying. It didn't seem real. It didn't seem clear. "Alek..." She breathed, closing her eyes as his hands closed around her, pulling her tight to him. Part of her wanted to leap, to run back to the path they'd been set to follow so very long ago... But she knew better. She knew that being rash would only end in pain and misfortune, "I can't. Not now. Now this soon... I need to know that you're sincere, that you're here to stay." The woman's voice was barely above a whisper, "I need to work this out... In my head. It's so much. I want to hate you, Alek, I want to hate you so bad and I can't anymore..." Again she reached for him, grasping the strength of his chin between her fingers as she spoke, opening her eyes to search his, "The truth is that I love you. I've loved you for so long and have never let that go. There's a fine line between love and hate, you know... It's so hard to cross. And... Yeah... Time... Alek..." Lifting herself to tip toe, her lips claimed his in what could only be described as a promise. It was a kiss that spoke of yearning, of need, of want. It was a kiss that clung to the precarious edge she was so desperately clinging to for her own salvation. Drowning in Aleksandr had been something she'd done already, and it was so easy to do it again. So... So easy.

“Da,” Aleksandr said into her kiss and picked her up and moved towards the bedroom, “Well you at least call me Sasha? Alek...is so…so…not Russian.”

He did not mind her request for more time. His goal was to let her know how serious he was. Deep down Aleksandr knew he would have her, even if it took the rest of his life. The look of her and the taste of her fueled his desire and strengthened his resolve. He would have his family back.


"How about I call you what I want and you like it?" Blyx chuckled lightly as she allowed herself to be carried off by the big Russian. Memories were designed to fade, but scars often remained forever. The future would be what would define them so long as she could remember to forgive and at least try to forget everything that had transpired over the last couple decades.

--

Fleet Admiral Blyx O. Red
Commanding Officer
Beta Quadrant, Starfleet

&

Captain Aleksandr R. Dunross
Director
Section 31, Starfleet