Personal Log | Captain Rochelle Ivanova - "Spring"

Posted on Sun Sep 7th, 2014 @ 12:29am by Admiral Rochelle Ivanova

1,248 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Are You Touched?

The Ferengi built resort had seen better days. With a façade of sun-bleached pink stucco, the building was a bastardized mix of Spanish colonial and Klingon art deco. Like Hollywood, its newness had faded, the luster tarnished by decades of would-be millionaires looking for fame and fortune. Star-struck and naïve, they’d waited for that one big chance until their hopes faded like the color of the resort they’d built on that God forsaken place.

Now she was staying there.

Rochelle sighed, finally and carefully stretching her cramped limbs as she uncurled from the chair she’d holed herself up in. The late afternoon sunshine felt good on her face as she paused to stand there for a second, absorbing it’s comforting warmth as it radiated through the open sliding glass door. Though her body ached with fatigue, the thought of her room with its uncomfortable bed was less than inviting, especially after the few nights she’d spent curled up with Almar guarding her in the serenity of her quarters back on the Vindicator.

She wanted nothing more than to soak in a hot tub until her skin pruned, then crawl into her scratchy-sheeted bed and arrange her little body around the lumps. Her exhaustion from the sleepless night before was so complete she knew she’d have no trouble sleeping then, especially after the ocean had cradled her and rocked her so exquisitely. It was strange how quickly she’d gotten used to having the Cardassian there at night, miss one and her entire house of sleepy cards had come crashing down to insomnia’s delight. It was nothing more than sleep and protection, the knowledge that someone was there to chase her demons away.

With a sigh, she straightened up, kissed the sun goodbye and left her sitting area to head to her bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, she was soaking in the large brassy tub, surrounded by almond-scented bubbles and the muted strains of Vivaldi coming from the cheap radio-alarm clock somewhere on her nightstand. The water lapped against the sides of the tub, cradling her in its warmth like a second womb. The Captain slid further down, the hair she so carefully pinned up falling out of its confined state to float in the water like strands of rusty seaweed. She doesn't care. In this world she is protected, safe and secure. Nothing untoward could happen to her here. He’d never let it, and he was never far away.

The events of nights past flashed in her mind. They were all jumbled together, so surreal, so… Confusing. She remembered Almar, so eager to help, curling up with her in his arms, icing her eye, dancing in spite of the whispers following his every move. And then there was Vlimar, taunting, pulling, provoking response and soliciting reaction – each instance, each moment, each perfect key all finding her alternating between amused, proud and frustrated. Lifting a mass of bubbles, she watched them collapse in her hand, wishing her ambivalent feelings would do the same. Disappear.

Rochelle trailed her fingers through the warm water, watching the smattering of bubbles bob as her motions caused the water to stir. It was like Almar, she thought, going through life causing little ripples in his wake. Each disturbance was slight enough to be almost unnoticeable, but as time passed she’d find herself pulled along whether she wanted to be or not.

Did she want to be?

Sighing, she straightened up in the tub, leaning her head against the rim. It was a silly question, of course. If she were honest with herself she’d admit that she’d considered the aspect of falling in love with him even though he wasn't an easy man to love. His prickly sense of humor could be trying, and his confidence in his work was to the point of arrogance at times. She’d learned to respect his ideas even when she couldn't agree with them and she knew he valued her judgment just as much, despite their theoretic and background differences.

Then what’s holding you back? the voice in her head asked. Their first kiss, and each subsequent one after, had carried the promise of something more, but it was still a pledge so very unfulfilled. She knew the extenuating circumstances. Queen. Captain. Mourning. A lot had happened in the months since they’d first met. Her near death experience immediately came to mind, and she shivered almost violently in remembrance. He’s dead, he’d want you to live, she told herself before pushing it all from her thoughts.

And then… The night of the award’s ceremony, she’d allowed him to see her at her most vulnerable, to curl up in his arms and fall soundly asleep with him. She’d readily accepted his affections and the promise of security, comfort and support he offered oh so easily, without reservation. The time was never right for more than that… And a kiss that had been less than chaste. She worried that it never would be. Soaping her sponge, it slid over the plush, feminine contours of her body while she wondered if all of the bubbles and scents, lotions and loofahs, were wasted efforts on her part. What good was soft skin with no one to appreciate it? Or rather… If she didn't allow another to appreciate her girlish charms.

She wasn't ready to let them in.

The wound of loss was still fresh, gaping and all consuming as it dictated how she floated onward through life. It didn't leave room for anything but the memory of Landon Neyes and the constant mobbing of the 'shoulda', 'coulda', 'woulda's that punctuated her private thoughts.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, according to Emily Dickinson. Rochelle smiled sadly to herself. She loved that poem as a teen and still loved it now with the images it inspired. Hope was the one thing that she’d still allow herself to hold on to, however small. Hope that the new understanding would soon be the springboard to more even though she moved notoriously slow, and seemed – outwardly – ever so content with things as they were. So he watched and he waited, she knew, perhaps hoping that there was still something to hope for, and knowing that a hope starved would eventually die…

Death.

Fuck death.

Sighing, she threw the sponge, wincing as the water and bubbles splashed back at her in protest. So much for a relaxing bath.

Stepping from the draining tub, Rochelle quickly rubbed herself dry with the thin resort provided cotton towel. What was it exactly that held her at bay from allowing her to make yet another fated leap? “Mortal fear,” she murmured, her mind a buzz with the cautionary tale of loving only to lose to Death. She scoffed at the thought as she smoothed her hands along her skin with moisturizer and stumbled across the bathroom floor, dragging on a pair of panties and a tee shirt. As she moved to grab her comb and run it through the wild tangle of her hair she noticed the pale blue smudges that lay like bruises beneath her eyes in the mirror. “The only thing I’m afraid of is that bed,” She told her reflection, reaching for her toothbrush.

It was a lie.

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Captain Rochelle Ivanova
Commanding Officer
USS VINDICATOR

 

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