Post 286: Not a Date
Posted on Thu Jul 31st, 2025 @ 5:25pm by Lieutenant Commander Michael McMahon & Lieutenant JG Lirian Tarel
Edited on on Thu Jul 31st, 2025 @ 5:25pm
708 words; about a 4 minute read
Mission: A New Beginning
Mike McMahon stood just outside the glowing arch of the lounge, hands in his jacket pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet. He checked the chrono on the wall for the third time in sixty seconds. He wasn’t nervous. Not really. It was just... this wasn’t a date.
He wasn’t even in uniform. That felt weird. But Lirian had said “no uniforms” when she suggested they get drinks. Not that she said why. Not that he asked.
The doors parted with a musical chime, and there she was.
Lirian Tarel walked in like she’d never been late for anything in her life. Her hair was half-down, softly framing her face, and she wore a simple dark blue top with silver threading that shimmered subtly in the ambient lighting. Her Betazoid eyes met his, and she smiled. Not the counselor smile. A real one.
“Commander,” she greeted, a little teasing in her tone.
“Counselor,” he replied, equally dry.
They stood there for a beat, like two people pretending they didn’t spend most days sharing status updates and mission stress in corridors and conference rooms.
“So,” she said finally, gesturing toward the bar, “you drinking synthehol or living dangerously?”
“I’m already out of uniform and out of my comfort zone,” Mike said. “Might as well keep going.”
They grabbed a small corner booth, the one half-lit with soft amber glows and walls of faux palm fronds that made the whole place feel like a Starfleet beach resort that had survived a design committee.
The owner, winked at Mike from behind the bar but didn’t interrupt. He gave her a subtle nod of gratitude. The last thing he needed was her noticing this wasn’t a date.
“So,” Lirian said after their drinks arrived—some kind of pineapple-mint thing with too much garnish—“how are you really doing?”
Mike took a long sip before answering. “I thought we said no counseling.”
“I’m off the clock,” she said, swirling her glass. “This is just me asking. As a friend.”
He gave her a long look. “I’m okay. As okay as someone juggling starship repairs, power grid overloads, crew rotations, and a growing suspicion that the replicators on Deck 7 are sentient can be.”
Lirian smiled. “Still blaming the replicators?”
“They’re watching me. I swear they’re watching me.”
They both laughed, and something in the air shifted. It wasn’t awkward. Just... different. Comfortable in a way that surprised them both.
“You know,” she said, “I didn’t think you’d say yes.”
“To this?” he asked. “The not-a-date?”
“To drinks,” she clarified. “You're not exactly... social.”
“Neither are you.”
She lifted her glass in agreement. “And yet, here we are. Socializing.”
“Strictly professional socializing,” Mike added.
“Of course.”
They clinked glasses with mock-seriousness.
A few minutes passed in easy silence. Music hummed from the speakers, something old and jazzy. Mike leaned back and looked around.
“I didn’t expect this place to grow on me,” he admitted. “It’s not really my style.”
“Too festive?” she asked.
“Too... bright. Too many colors. Too much fruit in the drinks.”
“You’re a grumpy old man trapped in a 30-something’s body.”
“Tell anyone, and I’ll reassign you to a shuttlepod.”
She smirked. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He didn’t respond. Just smiled into his drink.
Eventually, their conversation meandered—music, food, books, the last disaster on Deck 5, the time the station AI played Klingon opera over the comms for twelve hours. They laughed more than they expected.
When the evening wound down, and they walked together down the quieter halls of the promenade, their steps fell into sync.
Outside her quarters, Lirian turned toward him. “Thanks for tonight.”
“Thanks for... whatever this was,” Mike said, scratching the back of his neck.
“Definitely not a date,” she said, eyes twinkling.
“Definitely not,” he echoed.
She gave him a look—one of those quiet, knowing, Betazoid ones—and stepped inside.
The door hissed shut, leaving Mike alone in the corridor.
He stood there a second longer than necessary, then shook his head with a soft chuckle.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Not a date.”
And yet, somehow, it didn’t feel like just drinks either.
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