Morning Miseries

Posted on Mon May 11th, 2026 @ 1:42am by Lieutenant Evelyn Stewart & Lieutenant JG Koaruh Avestro

3,765 words; about a 19 minute read

Mission: Year One: The Point of No Return
Location: USS Moore - Brig
Timeline: MD: 011 - 0900 hours

The brig was quiet in a way the rest of the ship never quite managed. Not silent—the warp engines still carried through the deck in that low, steady thrum—but contained. Clean lines, fixed lighting, the faint shimmer of the forcefield marking the boundary as clearly as anything physical. Nothing in the room changed unless someone made it change.

After a while, it stopped feeling like a place you were put.

It felt like a place you were left.

Stewart lay back on the slab with one arm tucked behind her head, eyes on the ceiling without really seeing it. She’d settled into that position long enough ago that moving didn’t seem worth it. The first hours had burned off anything sharp—anger, pacing, the need to push against something. That part had somewhere to go.

This didn’t.

She shifted slightly anyway, rolling one shoulder before letting it rest again, more to break the monotony than from any real discomfort. Her thumb dragged once along the edge of her palm, an idle, grounding motion, then stilled when even that started to feel unnecessary.

Her gaze drifted toward the forcefield, catching the faint shimmer before sliding away again. Same room. Same details. Nothing new to find in it.

Keishara.

That sat there, heavier than the rest.

Not something she could dismiss. Not something she could justify cleanly either. She’d already gone over it more than enough—what she’d said, what she’d done, how it had landed—and none of it came out any better. She rolled her shoulder again at the discomfort from her still aching body.

Stewart exhaled slowly through her nose and let her head settle more firmly against her arm, staring back up at the ceiling.

Bored.

Restless in a way that didn’t build into anything.

Just waiting—for the doors, for the next conversation, for someone else to decide what happened next.

Koaruh stepped into the brig with a PADD tucked under one arm and felt her before he properly looked at her.

Boredom. Restlessness. Shame sitting under it like a bruise. And beneath all of that, something familiar enough to catch him low in the chest before he had the chance to armour up against it.

He hated seeing her in here.

Not because the brig itself was cruel. It wasn’t. It was too clean for that. Too ordered. But Evelyn had never been built for containment, and seeing her laid out beneath that forcefield, all that sharpness banked down into stillness, pulled at him in a way he kept carefully off his face.

He handed the PADD to the security officer by the door. “Commander Greco’s orders, Captain Maraj’s backing,” he said simply. “I need privacy for the assessment.”

Once they cleared out, he let the quiet settle again before he moved. He crossed to the nearest chair, turned it around, and sat down in front of the cell with the back facing forward, arms folding loosely over it. Not too close. Not distant either. Just there.

For a moment he said nothing. He let his eyes rest on her properly then, taking in the set of her shoulders, the way she was lying like stillness had become something to wear rather than choose. His mouth flattened faintly.

“Morning, Ev,” he said at last, voice low and even.

Officially, this was straightforward. Assessment. Evaluation. Report back to Greco. That was the shape of it on paper. The paper, unfortunately, did not account for the fact that he knew how she looked half-awake, how she fit against him on a couch, how her silence changed depending on whether it meant peace or danger.

He kept that part out of his tone.

“I’ve been sent in officially,” he went on, lifting the PADD a fraction before setting it on his knee.

A beat.

“Greco wants an assessment. Maraj agreed.” His gaze held hers, calm and steady. “I’m here to do that.”

He paused, then let the edges soften just slightly.

“And I’m also here because it’s you.”

When the doors opened, Stewart didn’t move.

She heard his voice and shut it out on instinct. No visible reaction. Just control—clean, practiced, immediate. Whatever might have followed recognition stayed buried.

Her gaze stayed on the ceiling.

Procedure carried across the room—Greco, Maraj, privacy. None of it required her attention. She already knew how this worked. Had been expecting it.

So she stayed where she was, one arm behind her head, the other resting loose at her side. Still. Waiting.

When the room settled again, she shifted—slow, controlled—pushing herself upright. The movement pulled along her ribs, sharp and tight, then deeper through her back as her shoulder followed. The pain moved from the ache from the fight with Keishara into the bond pain efficiently. Her jaw set for a fraction of a second.

Her hand tightened then released. She let out a deep breath through her nose at the spike of pain running down her arm and hand. Once.

Then stilled again like nothing had happened.

Elbows came to rest on her knees, hands hanging between them. Her thumb dragged once along the edge of her palm, then stopped.

He finished.

“Mm.” That was it. Acknowledgment. Nothing more.

Then she looked at him. Direct. Deliberate. Held by her brown eyes.

“So which one are you today?”

No lead-in. No softening. The question landed clean and before he could answer—

“How do you prefer your patients?” she added casually, just as even. “Sitting up—”

A slight tilt of her head, eyes locked on his now.

“—or on their backs?”

She didn’t look away, didn’t soften it.

Just held him there—steady, unflinching—and let it land.

Koaruh let it land.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t bite. He just watched her for a moment, quiet, like he was letting the cheap shot pass all the way through instead of catching it.

“Charming,” he said at last, calm as ever.

His gaze stayed on hers. “Today I’m here in an official capacity. You already know that, so I’m not going to insult either of us by pretending otherwise.”

A beat.

“And that,” he added mildly, “was a very transparent attempt to make this personal before I can make it professional.”

He shifted slightly against the back of the chair, comfortable enough to be irritating. “I’m not going to spar with you just because you’re angry and this is the only room on the ship where you can’t pace it off.”

His eyes flicked, briefly, to the way she was holding herself, then back to her face.

“You picked a fight with Keishara. You lost. Now you’re in here with too much time to sit in it.” No judgment in the words. Just fact. “So we can do this two ways. You can keep taking shots at me because I’m a safe target, or we can talk about what actually put you in the DMZ looking for a fight in the first place.”

He let that settle.

“Your choice.”

Stewart didn’t move at first.

It landed.

Not in her expression—there was nothing there—but somewhere lower, quieter. A flicker she didn’t give him time to see.

Her eyes shifted off him for half a second, just enough to break the line, before returning like nothing had happened. Her jaw set, then eased.

She shifted then—controlled, deliberate—drawing one leg up, then the other, settling cross-legged on the slab like it was a place she’d chosen, not one she’d been put. Casual. Almost comfortable. Like a bed, not a brig.

Her shoulders loosened into it, spine straight but unforced, one elbow resting lightly against her knee as if the entire setup bored her more than it held her.

Her hands came together loosely, fingers still for a beat before her thumb dragged once along the edge of her palm.

Controlled. Reset.

“The same reason as everyone else.”

A pause—just long enough to feel intentional.

“A drink.”

Koaruh’s mouth twitched, faint and knowing. “A drink,” he repeated. “Right. And I’m sure the alcohol marched you over there, put your shoulders up, and told you exactly who to take a swing at.”

He let that hang just long enough to make the point, then eased back against the chair again, calm as ever.

“Come on, Ev. You can give Greco that answer if you want. I’m not buying it.” His eyes stayed on hers, warm enough to take the sting out, but not soft. “A drink might make you bolder. It doesn’t make you specific.”

He tipped his head a fraction, studying her. “You didn’t go for the room. You didn’t pick the first idiot who annoyed you. You picked Keishara.” A beat. “That means it was already in you before the first glass touched the table.”

His voice stayed low, easy, human. “So let’s not waste time pretending this started at the bar.” He shifted slightly, forearms folding over the back of the chair. “Back up one step for me. What were you carrying before the DMZ? What had you wound up enough that Keishara’s face was the one that finally made it snap?”

Then, because he was still Koaruh, because he couldn’t quite help himself, the corner of his mouth ticked up again.

“And try giving me the answer you’d give when you’re not being a pain in my arse.”

Stewart didn’t answer right away.

Her gaze stayed on him—but something tightened first. Her hand shifted, fingers curling hard against the edge of the slab, grip locking for a fraction of a second before she eased it like it hadn’t happened. Her jaw set with it, a brief, involuntary tell that he’d hit something a little too cleanly.

Then it was gone.

Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

“Careful,” she said lightly. “You start mixing business with pleasure, you’re going to lose track of where that line actually is.”

Her head tilted a fraction, studying him now.

“Or maybe you already did.”

A beat. Not pressed. Just placed.

She shifted back, pushing herself a few inches farther along the slab until her shoulders met the bulkhead, settling into it like she intended to stay there. One arm moved with her—absently, unconsciously—her fingers dragging slowly along her forearm, pressing, tracing, like she was working feeling back into it.

“You’ve got Greco’s orders,” she went on, tone even, almost conversational. “Assessment. Evaluation. Report back.” A faint lift of her brow. “That usually works better when you don’t… change roles halfway through.”

Her hand stilled.

A second too late.

Her fingers flexed once against her arm before she dropped it, like she’d just realized what she was doing and refused to acknowledge it.

Her gaze held his, unflinching.

“Or is that the point?” she added, quieter now, just enough edge under it. “You come in here, decide what you are depending on what suits you.”

She let her head rest back against the wall, posture loose, almost bored.

“Because last time I checked, you were very clear about where that line was.”

A pause.

Then, just slightly sharper:

“Funny how it moves.”

Koaruh watched her do it.

Not the words. The forearm. The grip. The tiny corrections she made a second too late, like if she moved quickly enough she could turn instinct into choice. He let the silence sit for a moment, giving her all the room in the world to keep performing if that was what she wanted.

Then he spoke, quiet and maddeningly even.

“My line hasn’t moved.”

No heat in it. No defensiveness. Just certainty.

“You’re trying to make this about whether I’m being professional enough, because that’s cleaner than answering the question.” He shifted slightly on the chair, still relaxed, still not taking the bait. “And you’re smart enough to know the difference.”

His eyes flicked once to her arm, then back to her face. Not calling it out. Just clocking it.

“I know you. That’s true. I know when you’re winding me up, I know when you’re choosing your words carefully, and I know when something’s got under your skin enough that your body starts talking before you do.” A beat. “That isn’t me changing roles. That’s me not pretending I’ve forgotten the last two months just because I walked into the brig with a PADD.”

He let that land.

“If you want this by the book, I can do that. I can sit here, ask the formal questions, write the clean little report, and we can both waste an hour acting like I’m interviewing a stranger.” The corner of his mouth moved, but there was no real humour in it. “But let’s not dress that up as virtue. It’d just be theatre.”

He leaned forward a fraction, forearms resting on the back of the chair.

“The line is still exactly where I told you it was. I’m not here to be your partner. I’m not here to pick over us. I’m here to assess where your head was when you went for Keishara, and whether it’s likely to happen again.” His voice softened, just slightly. “The fact that I know you well enough to ask better questions doesn’t make that less professional. It makes me better at my job.”

A brief pause.

“So no, it’s not funny how it moves.” His gaze held hers, steady and clear. “It hasn’t moved at all. You just don’t like where it leaves you right now.”

He sat back again, giving her space.

“You can keep testing me if you want. Or you can answer me properly.” A small tilt of his head. “What was already eating at you before the drink, before the DMZ, before Keishara?”

Stewart’s mouth opened—ready, automatic.

Something sharp. Dismissive. Easy.

It stalled.

Her jaw set instead, the words catching as his landed cleanly—and didn’t leave her anything obvious to push against.

She held his gaze a beat longer than she had any reason to—hard, steady, like she could force him into submission—then broke it first, turning toward the faint shimmer of the forcefield, the clean lines of the brig taking her attention as if by choice.

A breath slipped out through her nose, quieter than she intended, her jaw still tight like she refused to concede.

“…I don’t know.” she offered. It was soft and unsteady in a way she didn’t bother to cover.

Silence stretched just long enough to feel it.

“It’s in the report,” she added, dismissive—like he’d just lost the argument.

Her hand moved without thinking, dragging slowly down the length of her arm to her hand before sliding back up again—The motion stalled for a fraction of a second at her wrist, then continued, while her fingers flexed instinctively in her lap. The motion was small but insistent as her gaze stayed fixed on the field.

Koaruh saw the automatic answer die before it made it out of her mouth.

Good.

Not because he wanted to win. There was no winning this. But because for the first time since he’d walked in, the performance had cracked enough for something real to slip through.

He didn’t move in on it too quickly. Evelyn hated that. If he pounced, she’d bare teeth and make the next ten minutes about him instead.

So he stayed where he was, arms folded over the back of the chair, eyes steady on her rather than the restless track of her hand.

“I’ve read the report,” he said.

Not sharply. Not dismissively. Just enough to close that door.

“The report tells me what happened. It doesn’t tell me what you felt two seconds before you walked in.” His gaze flicked once, brief and careful, to her hand moving over her arm, then returned to her face. “And it doesn’t tell me why your body keeps answering when your mouth doesn’t want to.”

He let that sit, giving her the chance to hate it without needing to deny it.

“You said you don’t know,” he continued, softer now. “That’s the first honest answer you’ve given me since I sat down.”

There was warmth in it, but no indulgence. He wasn’t smiling. Not now.

“So we start there.”

He shifted the PADD off his knee and set it on the floor beside the chair, deliberate enough that she would notice. Still official. Still an assessment. But no barrier between them.

“I’m not asking you to hand me the whole thing wrapped up and labelled. I’m asking for the piece you can reach.” A beat. “Was it anger? Shame? Kei saying something you couldn’t stand hearing? Seeing her sitting there like she had the right to judge you?”

He paused, watching her closely enough to catch the smallest twitch, but not with the cold interest of someone hunting for weakness.

“Or was it that she was right?”

That one he let land gently, but he didn’t take it back.

His voice lowered a fraction.

“I care about you, Ev. You know I do. But I’m not going to pretend this was just a bad night and a drink because that would be easier for both of us. You challenged Keishara in public and ended up in here. That matters. Not because I want to punish you for it, and not because Greco needs a neat paragraph from me.”

He leaned forward slightly, enough to bring himself back into her line of sight without crowding the forcefield.

“It matters because if we don’t find the thing underneath it, it happens again. Maybe not with Kei. Maybe not in the DMZ. But somewhere.”

A quiet breath.

“And I don’t want to watch you keep hurting yourself just to prove no one else can.”

Stewart’s head snapped up.

“Shut up.”

The words cracked out of her before she was even fully moving.

She shoved herself off the slab abruptly, pain flaring through her body the moment her feet hit the deck—the ache in her ribs and shoulder pulling sharply through bruised muscle and already frayed nerves. Her foot caught the discarded duty jacket on the floor without thought and she kicked it sharply up through the air into the forcefield.

The fabric struck the shimmer with a violent hiss-crack before collapsing back to the deck.

Stewart didn't see it land, already turning away from it.

One pass across the length of the cell. Another.

Fast at first. Tight. Restless energy bleeding out through motion as she fought to keep the rest of it contained. Her breathing stayed uneven for a moment before she forced it slower, shoulders pulling straighter as she deliberately reined herself back in.

Both hands dragged back hard through her hair before settling briefly behind her head, eyes shut, jaw tight as she pulled in one measured breath through her nose.

Held it. Released it slower. Again.

The rhythm steadied her only just enough.

By the time her hands lowered, the sharpest edge had been forced back down beneath discipline and practiced control alone. Her arms folded tightly across her chest instead, fingers tucked hard against her sides like she was physically holding the rest of herself together.

Stewart stopped near the back wall, staring toward the floor for a long moment before finally lifting her eyes toward him again.

“That’s the only answer you’re getting.”

Her voice came out controlled. Barely.

She broke eye contact first.

Crossing back toward the slab, Stewart lowered herself onto it carefully, the accumulated ache from the fight pulling through the movement despite the control she forced into it. She settled back against the bunk and stared up at the ceiling again.

One hand rested lightly against her stomach while the other drifted up toward her forehead, fingers moving restlessly through the edge of her hairline in small, repetitive motions that never quite settled.

Her body stayed tight against the slab. So did her jaw.

Koaruh didn’t move when the jacket hit the forcefield.

The snap of it cut through the brig, sharp and ugly, but his eyes stayed on Evelyn. He watched the pacing, the forced breathing, the way she dragged herself back under control by sheer will and then sat down like nothing had happened.

Except it had.

He let the silence sit for a moment longer, then stood.

“Alright,” he said, quiet. “We’re done.”

He kept the PADD in one hand, but didn’t look at it.

“I’m not going to keep pushing you while you’re like this. You’re hurt, you’re angry, and you’ve decided I’m the safest person in the room to fight with.”

A beat.

“You didn’t answer me, but you didn’t have to.”

His jaw shifted slightly. Not anger. Restraint.

“The bond is still all over this. The pain, the temper, the way anything too close turns into a threat.” He held her gaze through the forcefield. “You can hate that. You can tell me to shut up. But I’m not going to pretend I don’t see it.”

There was a small pause, and when he spoke again his voice had softened, though not enough to lose the edge.

“And I’m saying that as the counsellor Greco sent in here, not as the man who cares about you. Because that man would like to say a lot more right now, and none of it would help.”

He stepped back from the cell.

“I’ll report that you’re oriented, aware of what happened, and not a danger while contained. I’m also recommending counselling before you go back on duty.”

His eyes moved briefly to her hand near her hairline, then back to her face.

“Not as punishment. Because this isn’t over.”

He turned toward the door, then paused just long enough to add, quieter:

“When you’re ready to stop swinging at me, I’ll listen.”

Then he keyed the door.

“Rest if you can, Ev.”

And left her with the hum of the brig.

 

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