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“It’s pretty late, Cadet.”
“Eh, you weren’t busy,” Caleb replies, pushing right past Nahla into the heart of her office. An apple is taken from the bowl on her table, bitten into, and then returned to its former placement; it's not a gesture of cockiness or a display of confidence, it feels more like a decision made in uncertainty, like Caleb is fluttering around the room without direction or guidance or understanding. Instead of finishing it, Caleb sighs, clenches two fists, and plops down on Nahla's chaise, sinking into the warm green velvet. Caleb looks up at her with a gaze that whispers yell at me, berate me for barging in, give me your fury, give me what I deserve, but when Nahla refuses to crumble, that expression turns entirely exasperated.
"Shit, you look like you need to talk."
With a thick groan, Caleb's hands fall over Caleb's face, finally allowing vulnerability to shine through the gaps between each finger, finally allowing the table scraps of the inner mind to be devoured. "I don't know what I'm doing here."
"Oh, I think you do." Nahla pulls a chair from her table and drags it over to where Caleb sits, settling down into it with her chest to its back and one leg spread over each side. She rests her elbows on her knees, rests her head on her own closed fists, and says, "Okay, out with it." When a beat passes with only silence, Nahla leans in closer, her hair dipping down over Caleb's arm. "Come on," she continues. "I was watching The Sopranos."
"I don't… know how to talk about it."
"So don't. Draw it, then. Mime it if you need to. But, kid, you obviously need to get whatever this is off your chest." She gives Caleb her widest, warmest grin, unfolding herself. "Let me be here for you."
Just like I was when I took you away from your—
Hesitantly, with a face still hidden: "SAM has been trying to make up nicknames for us too."
"Oh, yeah?"
"She…" A clearing of the throat, a sharp inhale. "She called me… Callie."
"I see," Nahla says. She cannot reach out for Caleb's hands, and she should not place her palm over Caleb's knee, and she should not stroke Caleb's cheek. She can never try to be that kind of comfort, no matter how much she needs to be, craves to be, has to be. She is here to advise, to admire from afar, to dream. She has to be Caleb's chancellor first, and never Caleb's friend, never—
"Well," she goes on, attempting to snap herself away from the thought, "not to sound like a therapist, but… how did that make you feel?"
Caleb's hands finally drag down — so slow, so gentle — back to Caleb's sides. "I think I… liked it?" Another sigh—relief? "Maybe not the name itself, but how it sounded. It felt… like being a better version of me. You know, someone who isn't just… fucking… numb all the time."
Nahla nods. "And what does that mean to you?"
Caleb's chest rises, falls, heavy. "I don't know, but it's… I wish I understood myself."
"Well… maybe at Starfleet Academy, you finally will."
"Yeah, right," Caleb replies. The words are paired with glittering eyes, a faint but genuine smile, and a playful push over the forearm that they both linger against for just a little bit too long.
