The Nebula-class cruiser that had dropped out of warp over Bajor was a far cry from the vessel she’d been two months ago. Once battered and scarred, USS Melbourne had spent more than her share of time, after her emergency scramble towards Sauria, in the yards- first for completion of repairs, and then for a mild service-life extension program. Just like last year, catastrophe had struck just in time to save ol’ 71944 from the breakers’ yards- she had a few more years of service left to give, and now they were needed.

The results? Melbourne dropped out of warp like an absolute charm, nary a disturbance to be seen. The run from Beta Antares to Bajor had given time to test everything from the shields to the sensors and even trying a max-speed sprint for good measure, and there’d never been a smoother ride to hit warp 9. The once bare, scorched hull was now clean and bright, adorned with orange here and there to herald her new unit. Even the interior had been given an overhaul, the walls repainted and the carpets refreshed- more than ever, she felt like a time capsule back to a different era. She was ready, more than ever, for her next mission, unorthodox as it was.

Her captain? Maybe not so much. In fact, Shymel sh’Insynaph was still wondering how “dress comfortably for a night of dancing and fun” could take someone so damn long to prep for. Especially considering Charlotte MacColgan’s first attempt had been her dress uniform.

Finally, with time ticking on by and the blue ball of Bajor, plus a cluster of Starfleet IFFs, waiting beyond, the Andorian rapped her knuckles on the door with a sigh. To her relief, the “Enter!” that came from within was not proceeded with “Just a moment!”

So the executive officer stepped through the door, froze in her tracks, staring wide-eyed, and muttered, “What the hell are you wearing?”

Poor Charlie could only glance down, regarding the plaid flannel shirt and jeans she’d thrown on (topped with what looked strangely like a baseball cap with a ship on the front) and replied incredulously, “What’s wrong wi’ this?”

“Charlie, you’re going on a vacation, not going back to the farm.”

“It is a bloody farm!”

“Yes, and you’re not working on it, are you?” Shy slapped a hand to her face, biting back an agonized groan. Gods above, this woman was going to kill her. “It’s a dance, for crying out loud! You don’t have any- dresses, or anything?”

Charlie just stared blankly at her, eyes glazing over for a moment before her brows furrowed. “… Shy, dae I need’a remind ya that I’m metal from the thighs down? I’m nae dancin’ and I’m bloody damn well nae wearin’ a dress.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to show up looking like a- ugh.” Facepalming didn’t seem like enough anymore. Shy needed to grab her friend by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. Instead, she just settled for leaning against the doorway as if liable to faint from secondhand embarrassment. “… is that a Melbourne hat?” she asked instead, distracting herself from the fact that her captain and best friend looked more like she was going to go till a field than take a break.

Charlie adjusted the cap atop her head, matting down her wild curls (pulled into the world’s messiest ponytail through the back, of course). And sure enough, it had Melbourne‘s name, registry, and silhouette emblazoned on the front. “Aye, it is.”

“Why are you wearing a baseball cap to a dance?” Shy asked. Then paused. Then added, “And where’d you even get that?”

“Well, it’s gonna be sunny, ain’ it?” the Scot replied, then jabbed a thumb over to the replicator. “I made it in th’ replicator.”

“… I want a Melbourne hat.”

“Make it in th’ replicator, then!” Charlie grumbled, snatching up her cane from where it was leaning against the wall and giving it a bit of a twirl before leaning it on her shoulder. “Ship’s yours for a bit anyways, aye? Don’t burn anythin’ while I’m gone, for chrissakes.”

“Who, us? Please.  We’d never do such a thing.” That, at least, got a devilish grin out of the Andorian, stepping back out into the hallway and permitting Charlie to leave. “Besides, we won’t be too far away for most of it. Espinoza’s getting married in the same sector and I’ve got a Promenade to visit. And a bar. Packed up all my latinum for this trip.”

“Why th’ bloody hell d’ya have latinum?”

“When your parents are cargo haulers, you pick up all sorts of things,” she responded with a snort. “I’ll show you my mementos sometime. But you’re…” A glance down at a watch she didn’t have, for drama’s sake. “A few minutes late. Better get your rear in gear, farm girl.”

“That’s Cap’n Farm Girl tae ya,” Charlie replied with an eye roll and a smile, moving on past Shy with a shoulder bump. “Stay safe while I’m gone, aye? Even if it’s just D-S-Nine. An’ don’ get tae drunk, ’cause I’ll still need a pickup and so will Espinoza and her wife.”

“Aye aye, Captain Farm Girl.”

A quiet chuckle left the skipper as she left, unheeding of Shymel’s eyes firmly on her before the next door closed and she was out of sight.

Not everyone was unheeding, though. The clicking of heels against the floor behind her made the Andorian turn, and there stood one chief tactical officer in a great big white gown and a giant, sly, shit-eating grin on her face. “Someone’s staring,” Carmen Espinoza commented, almost idly if not for the mischievous glint in her eyes.

Shymel’s heart jumped in her chest, but externally she only rolled her eyes. “Do you want a ride to your wedding or not? Because we can definitely leave that to the local shuttle service.”

“I’m not saying anything,” Espinoza replied cooly, but the grin refused to be wiped from her face, turned, and wandered back down the hall. “Gracias, Commander! Good luck!”

Internally, Shymel mused if it was really luck she needed instead of guts.