Something With Bite

Posted on Tue May 5th, 2026 @ 4:02am by Chloe de la Vega & 1st Lieutenant Kes Th’relnal

2,091 words; about a 10 minute read

Mission: Year One: The Point of No Return
Location: Mess Hall (Kitchen)
Timeline: MD 006 - 2115 hrs

The kitchen was quieter than it had been an hour ago, the rush finally burned off and replaced with the steady rhythm Chloe liked best. She moved between counter and sink, sleeves rolled, methodical without rushing. A tray cooled on the side, steam ghosting up from something she’d clearly made out of habit rather than necessity.

She was halfway through wiping down a prep surface when the doors slid open behind her.

Chloe didn’t turn straight away. Just glanced up at the chrono, then carried on for another beat before setting the cloth aside.

“Kitchen’s still open,” she said easily, finally looking over her shoulder. “If you’re hungry, say now. If you’re just passing through, I promise I don’t bite.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to Kes, appraising but calm, and she nodded once in greeting before going back to what she was doing, leaving the space—and the next move—open.

Kes raised an eyebrow as his antenna waved to and fro. "I'm usually thirsty, but I think a snack would be nice."

He walked in a little closer to the galley window. "What's on the menu?"

He'd just finished a short workout and had his uniform jacket held tightly in his right fist. The Mess Hall was warm, but not oppressive as some he'd been in. It was a pleasant warmth filled with the smells of soups and dishes that had become embedded in the bulkheads like an aromatic story.

Chloe’s mouth tipped into a small, knowing smile as she clocked the jacket in his fist and the way his antennae kept wandering. Workout finished, appetite earned. She leaned her forearms on the counter, easy, comfortable in her space.

“Depends how brave you’re feeling,” she said lightly. “Generic options? Soup still on, flatbread, a couple of protein bowls. Nothing fancy.”

She paused, eyes flicking over him again, then softened into something more playful.
“Pero… (but) you’re Andorian.” One brow lifted. “Which means I could do something colder, lighter. Less heat, more bite. Something that won’t fight your physiology.”

She turned before he could answer, already reaching for a chilled tray and a knife. “I’ve got a citrus-and-salt cured fish, crisp greens, a little oil. Clean, sharp flavours. Think ‘refreshing’ not ‘coma-inducing’.” A glance back over her shoulder, teasing. “Unless you want to live dangerously and try the soup.”

The knife flashed, confident, practised. “So,” she added, voice warm, just a hint of flirt threaded through it, “do I play it safe for you… or do you trust me?”

"Safe was never my path." Kes said as he leaned on the sill of the galley window. "Not sure about trust, but I am curious." He watched as she moved and his antenna tracked her path around the kitchen. "Most humans lack an appreciation for the finer flavours. Most seem to think flavours need to be over powering or bland. No complimenting, no dance."

Chloe’s lips curved as she worked, the knife moving in smooth, economical strokes. She didn’t rush just because he was watching.

“Ah,” she murmured, amused. “You’ve met the wrong humans.”

She plated the cured fish with deliberate care—thin slices, bright citrus, a scatter of salt crystals and something sharp and green. Nothing heavy. Nothing drowning in sauce. She slid the plate onto the counter between them.

“Overpowering is lazy,” she said lightly. “Bland is worse. Flavour should know when to step forward and when to get out of the way. Like good company.”

Her gaze lifted to his, holding it a fraction longer than necessary. “There’s acid for brightness, salt for depth, something bitter to keep it honest. If it shouts, it’s wrong. If it whispers, it’s useless.”

She wiped her hands on a cloth and leaned back against the counter. “Try it. Tell me if it dances.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth. “And if it doesn’t, I’ll admit defeat and make you something reckless.”

Kes looked at the dish and smiled. His antenna waved back and forth before moving forward to investigate the dish even closer. He could smell and feel the coying scents and colours. He picked up the fork and stabbed it into almost remorseful to disrupt the presentation of the plating.

He took a healthy bite and chewed it slowly and deliberately. The flavour didn't kick or hold back. It simply was. As the fish moved across his tongue he could get the complimentary flavours and textures. He swallowed and only then realized he'd still been looking down at the plate and bare fork.

His antenna moved back up as he straightened his posture and dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

"I think that was more of a tango than a salsa." Kes said finally as he caught Chloe's gaze with his own. "My compliments to the chef."

He glanced back down and took another slice onto the fork before popping it into his mouth.

Chloe smiled when he named the dance, the satisfaction quiet but real.

“I’ll take tango,” she said, easy. “Means you were paying attention.”

She accepted the compliment with a small nod rather than brushing it off. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

As he took another bite, she moved back to the sink, rinsing her knife and giving him room rather than hovering over his reaction. She leaned her hip against the counter, watching him more casually now.

“You’ve been on the Moore longer than I have,” she said, tone warm rather than probing. “So tell me something — is Anjar actually as complicated as everyone makes it sound, or is that just crew-room shop talk?”

A faint smile tugged at her mouth.

“I hear it in passing. Marines talk about it like it’s a proving ground. Pilots talk about it like it’s a headache. No one explains it properly.”

She folded her arms loosely, relaxed. “I’m still working out what this ship carries around with it.”

The question wasn’t interrogation. It was curiosity — the kind that comes from someone who wants to understand the people she feeds.

Kes raised an eyebrow and his antenna flattened against his hair. "I try not to think about it honestly. It's all Starfleet Politics that I'm doing my best to avoid." He paused for a moment and sighed. "But it sounds like my men aren't as tight lipped as I'd like."

"No one is in trouble, it's to be expected." Kes continued. "But this is the real world and nothing is ever simple."

Chloe listened without interrupting, her expression softening a touch as he finished. She recognised the tone—someone choosing what not to say.

“That’s fair,” she said gently. “A kitchen teaches the same lesson. Some things you leave in the pot and don’t stir.”

She wiped the counter out of habit, then gave a small shrug before her eyes came back to him then, curiosity returning with a warmer edge.

“But something I’ve wondered…” She tilted her head slightly. “Do you miss the Imperial Guard?”

A small smile tugged at her mouth.

“I imagine it suits you. All that discipline, tradition… probably uniforms designed to look impressive from a kilometre away.” Her gaze flicked briefly over him before she added, teasing but easy, “Then again, the blue does most of the work.”

"Heh," Kes let out a chuckle. "It's a different beast, absolutely. Discipline, tradition... pride."

He took another bite, savouring the flavours as he realized his plate was quickly emptying. "I've found that Starfleet seems to change their minds and goals nearly as often as they change their uniforms or ship designs. Always moving forward before the last disaster has even finished. It has some advantages, but what lessons are really learned from anything?"

Chloe gave a quiet huff of laughter at that, one shoulder lifting as she leaned back against the counter.

“No, they’re not always the best at learning, are they?” she said, the warmth in her voice thinning into something drier. “They dress it up nicely, but half the time it feels like everyone’s charging at the next problem before they’ve finished cleaning up the last one just as you said.”

She toyed with the edge of the cloth in her hands, gaze dropping briefly before she looked back up at him.

“I grew up with Starfleet in the house,” she said, more casually than the admission deserved. “Or what passed for it. Duty, rules, discipline, all that noble maravilla (wonder). From a distance it’s meant to look like something solid. Worth believing in.” Her mouth tilted, but there wasn’t much humour in it. “Up close, sometimes it’s just people using the uniform to make themselves feel righteous.”

She shrugged, small and tight, as though she’d long since made her peace with that disappointment even if she hadn’t forgiven it.

“So I get what you mean. New orders, new priorities, new crisis, and everyone acts like that makes the old damage disappear.” Her eyes settled on him again, steadier now. “Maybe that’s why I like kitchens. If something burns, it burns. If you ruin a dish, you start again and do it properly.”

Then, because Chloe never stayed in the bruise too long if she could help it, a faint smile returned.

“Though I suppose that’s easier when the worst thing at stake is dinner and not a starship full of stubborn people.”

Kes finished the dish and wiped his mouth with the napkin.

"Focus on what you can change, not what you can't." He said firmly. "If you can make a better dish next time with what you learned, do it. But it's no sense is wondering an admiral is going to be made a scapegoat or a martyr. Those decisions are being made regardless of what we think or want."

The Andorian placed his cutlery neatly on the plate and pushed it slightly away from him. "Right now though, I'm wondering how much control you have over the liquor cabinet. The DMZ isn't far, but I figure I'm here already and I don't mind the company."

Chloe looked at the empty plate, then at him, and the corner of her mouth curled.

“There you are,” she said lightly. “A sensible man with a dangerous idea.”

She pushed off the counter and crossed to one of the storage lockers, not hurrying, but not pretending she wasn’t considering it. “My control over the liquor cabinet depends entirely on who’s asking, how charming they’ve been, and whether I think they’ll make a mess of my glasses.”

She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes warm with amusement. “You’re doing reasonably well so far.”

The locker opened with a soft hiss. Chloe crouched, shifted a crate aside, and came back up with a bottle held neatly by the neck. Not one of Char’s precious top-shelf trophies, but not the cheap stuff either. Something worth drinking without making a ceremony of it.

“I’m not in the habit of handing out favours to Marines just because they ask nicely,” she said, already reaching for two glasses. “Sets a bad precedent.”

That smile sharpened, playful and complicit all at once.

“But,” she added, pouring them both a measure, “I do believe in rewarding good taste.”

She slid one glass across to him, then leaned her hip against the counter instead of keeping the safe distance she might have with someone else. The room felt easier now, the conversation having settled into something warmer, more relaxed. Less ship. More two people finding a quiet corner in it.

“Just so we’re clear,” she said, lifting her own glass, “if anyone asks, this never happened. And if Char notices anything missing, I will look him dead in the eye and blame you without hesitation.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a beat, teasing and bright.

“Salud (cheers), blue boy. Try not to make me regret being generous.”

Kes lifted his own glass to the toast and grinned. "If Char notices a missing bottle I'd be offended if he didn't assume it was me in the first place." He took the first drink and felt the warmth down his throat.

Chloe’s grin widened. “Perfect. Then we already have our alibi.”

She drank, warm amusement in her eyes, and let the kitchen settle into something quieter, easier, and far more comfortable than either of them had planned.

 

RSS Feed