These stories came about in response to the serious vacuum of DaCosta ficage out there, so as is the natural tendency of such things with me—here's your fair warning—there will be slash. Therefore, fics with slashy content will be marked as such for those wishing to avoid it, and those who aren't are free to read into the rest however they want. :) Likewise with spoilers.
Both Original Recipe SEED and Destiny will be covered. C&C appreciated, drabbles though these single occasions may be. Just don't count on much continuity between each one. May they please the voles.
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Title: Commitment
Characters: Andrew Waltfeld, Martin DaCosta
Words: 863
Warnings: slight spoilers for Destiny
Summary: A cup of coffee is a commitment.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Absolutely."
A slight catch in his voice betrayed his true feelings, however.
The observation deck of the Eternal was empty at this hour but for the two of them; and in the silence that pervaded the space as he stood there still under his commander's scrutinizing gaze, DaCosta could hear the ever-present, monotonous drone of the ship's engines propelling them steadily through space. He met that gaze boldly, some old adage about how one mustn't stare down big cats rising to the fore of his mind. But he would not back down from his decision of only a few moments ago, as impulsive as it now seemed.
"I just want you to understand what you're getting yourself into." In one hand—his new hand—Commander Walfteld held an insulated cup, his fingers placed firmly and almost possessively on the rim of the lid. "A cup of coffee is a commitment, DaCosta," he said with gravity. "This is not something you can go into on a mere whim. You can't simply decide halfway through that you don't like it. When you have a cup of coffee, you're in it for the long haul, from the first sip."
DaCosta could not quite keep a smile from tugging at one corner of his mouth. There was a humor in Waltfeld's tone that most anyone else would probably miss for its dryness, but at the same time he was perfectly serious. He had said the same thing about scars once: that the choice to keep them was a materialization of their bearer's commitment.
Was that why he still bore his own, at the expense of his sight?
"I think I can handle it," DaCosta said.
"You think? Thinking isn't good enough, my friend. This isn't just a matter of mature taste. This cup represents a sacred bond—"
"Just give me the damn cup. Sir."
Waltfeld's good eye narrowed as he hesitated a final time. Without a word to indicate the doubt he must have harbored, he handed the cup over. It had a foreign weight in DaCosta's hand despite the mundaneness of the physical object itself. It was a symbol of dedication, a transaction of trust.
Then, as though the previous interchange had never occurred, the rakish smile returned to Waltfeld's lips, setting DaCosta, whose stomach felt tense from anxiety and the absence of gravity, at ease.
"To what shall we drink?" Waltfeld said, raising his own cup in a gesture of camaraderie.
"To my first cup of joe?" DaCosta laughed.
Waltfeld made a motion of concurrence.
"To your return to the Eternal. . . . To Miss Clyne."
"To peace."
That was somewhat unexpected, but DaCosta was happy to raise his own cup in a toast: "To peace."
The awkward sound of hard plastic gently hitting hard plastic sealed the deal. They put their lips to their respective straws in tandem.
One thing to be said for the conveniences of space travel, the aroma of the brew hardly penetrated the air until the flow was released. There was nothing to stagnate as there had been in the hot air of Banadiya. Only the pure taste of black, unadulterated coffee on DaCosta's tongue: hot, bitter, and sensuously alien.
Waltfeld closed his eye as he savored the layers of flavor that only he could distinguish so well. "Excellent," he said at last after a few sounds of appreciation, and looked at the nondescript cup as though seeing right through it to the individual grains of the beans themselves. "There was a reason the bedouin offered coffee to their guests returning from a leave of absence, rather than some humbler beverage, and I doubt it was just the caffeine. Can you think of anything more welcoming than a cup of freshly brewed?"
Involuntarily, DaCosta made a face. "It's terrible."
A hurt look barely noticeable crossed Waltfeld's own.
"Don't hold anything back on my account," he riposted sardonically. "Tell me exactly what you think."
"I'm sorry, sir. It must be an acquired taste after all."
"Well, to be fair, I don't think coffee was intended to be drunk through a straw."
"At least that masks the smell."
"Aroma, DaCosta. Coffee has an aroma, not a smell. And you wondered why I was reluctant to do this for you."
DaCosta smiled as he took another sip, watching his commander over the lid as he feigned offense. As expected, the second taste was no better than the first.
"You don't have to feel obligated to finish it," Waltfeld told him gently.
"I will, though," DaCosta assured him.
A rare look of surprise, however mild, came over Waltfeld's features.
"You said yourself, Commander. This is a commitment. I plan on seeing it through to the end."
Waltfeld turned away from him at that, his attention taking him to the starfield outside the window. Someone might have said just that a long time ago, DaCosta realized only then. The awkward silence seemed to support that. However, he meant it no less than that someone had.
It must have showed. The appreciation in Waltfeld's slight smile when he turned back confirmed it.
"You've already proven that to me, DaCosta."