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It was uncomfortably humid. A dozen bodies crammed into a small room – talking and sweating details – could have that effect.

Lieutenant Commander Jules Ashworthy – Jules to most – could feel beads of sweat running down his back, collecting where his shirt was tucked regulation style into the bottom half of his uniform. He pulled at his collar, unsuccessfully, and the proximity of his fingers to his face made him remember just how dirty he felt. He had a bad habit of touching his face when he was thinking and, oh boy, had his brain been putting in work lately.

The Captain, Jericho Sands, an older man with a round figure and graying hair, chuckled as he placed a small tray in front of Jules and took a seat on the opposite side of the glossy conference table. He grunted – only slightly – as he pushed back into the cushions.

A cup, steaming with heat, sat on the tray with the string of a tea bag spilling over the edge. Tucked next to it was a damp towel.

Jules raised an inquisitive brow as his eyes danced between the Captain and the tray. “Did you replicate a tea bag?” he asked, voice peaking.

“I did,” answered Sands flatly. His smile reached his eyes as he folded his hands over his stomach.

“You… do know the replicator can make the water pre-stewed?”

“Nonsense,” answered the older man. “Tea is best enjoyed after an extremely small, but irritating, waiting period.”

It was Jules’ turn to chuckle, and as he laughed he felt a weight he hadn’t noticed melt away. His shoulders relaxed. Reaching out to grab the towel, he ran it over his face – even stopping to dab behind each of his ears. A heavy sigh escaped his lips.

“That said. I’d prefer you treat the fact that I use teabags, and not actual dirt and leaves, to flavor my water, as highly classified. Half the crew would mutiny if they knew I held such barbaric preferences.”

“Of course, Captain,” said Jules, now running the towel over his neck. “I didn’t even know the replicator was programmed to make teabags, now that I think about it.”

“Oh, it’s not,” answered the Captain. “It’s one of the custom items I add everywhere I go. Dr. Walker has a habit of deleting the file in protest – so when we came aboard the new Gilroy I made sure to classify the file as Captain clearance only. She has no idea.”

Jules reached for the tea and took a hearty sip. Flavors of peach and lemon.

“I know you probably prefer synthol or, dare I say, coffee. But I find tea is better for debriefs,” added Sands. He unknotted his hands and made a wide wave of the room around them with each hand. “Debrief me.”

Jules’ smile faltered some as he cupped the steaming drink with two hands, using the sting of the heat as a way to focus his mind.

“The mission was a success,” he said after a pregnant pause. His eyes focused on the liquid before him.

“Was it?” asked the Captain.

“Technically, yes.”

“Only technically?” Sands spoke slowly and with an ever-cheery undertone. Jules could tell he was still smiling even without looking over at him.

“Well,” said Jules, though he paused. He wanted to get it right – so he took a moment to organize his thoughts.

“It feels a bit hollow. We delivered the medical supplies to the two colonies – but by the time we got there the illness had practically burned itself out. Yes – they’re ready for the next breakout, if one happens. But that doesn’t do much for those who died before we got there.”

“No, I wouldn’t think it would,” agreed the older man.

“And E’Spor, Mall, and the other teams managed to repair the various infrastructure issues on each colony. I’m pretty sure the Klingon farming equipment specifically is better than when it arrived. But nothing we did is going to stop either colony from messing with the other again, is it?”

He took another hearty sip. After, he dared to look over at Sands, finding the Captain staring right back at him. Still smiling.

“Then why send us back out? Why not scrap the mission after we were pulled off it the first time?” asked Sands.

“Well – we promised we’d help,” said Jules, flatly. “It was late. But we said we’d help and we did.”

“True,” said Sands, though a bit too flatly for Jules’ taste.

“And…,” added Jules, thinking. “It’s not like the Klingons or Romulan Republic showed up to bail out the colonies. So we both offered help and got to score some diplomatic points. Also, we got to test out a few systems of this Rhode Island class. Like the mass-transporter in the Cargo Bay and the planetary survey sensors. So it was beneficial to our crew, too.”

“Tell me more.”

Jules ran his hand through his red curls, tugging slightly like he was jumpstarting an old-school lawnmower. Then he dragged his hand down across his face.

“E’Spor seems… depressed. But I’m not sure if Vulcans can get depressed. You can hear it in his log – he’s worried that his maintenance failure during our last mission has cost him the trust of his team. But, I mean, yes he runs them tough. And he’s strict. And he made an error. But his team definitely respects him!”

“How do you know?”

“No complaints were filed, for starters,” Jules said, suddenly realizing his second hand had also found itself in his hair. “And his Assistant Chief’s after-action report noted that morale was high among the junior engineers. Two even noted that they felt they had grown in their practice.”

“Okay. What else?”

“Well, Commander Mall was surprisingly diplomatic, too. He’s very by the book but seemed to have walked away net-positive with the Klingons.”

“I have the same assessment. You also seemed to have bonded rather successfully with our Klingon liaison,” added Sands, a knowing eyebrow raised.

Jules choked slightly on what was left of the tea, his face momentarily matching the shade of his hair.

“Um. Yes, well. I’m a people pleaser,” he said, instantly regretting his choice of words.

“Clearly,” added Jericho who, Jules swore, winked. “Anything else?”

Ripping his hands from his face and hair, Jules placed both hands on the edge of the table and willed himself to come up with something grand and impressive. Something about improving efficiency or pointing out an error in procedure that the Captain might have missed. But, think as hard as he might, nothing profound came to mind. So he said the dumb thought that’d been creeping around in his head since he first read the after-mission logs last night in preparation for today.

“It seems like half the crew is sad about the mission – a little defeated, maybe. Or a bit kicked in the teeth. And the other half is proud of what they did. So… maybe we need to do something about that.”

He braced himself for a grunt of displeasure or a mocking retort. A disappointed sigh or, at least, an eye roll. But Sands was still smiling.

“What do you recommend?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” answered Jules, honestly.

“And that’s okay. Because you’re not the captain.”

And Jules watched as the Captain stood up and walked the brief distance to his own chair before he placed a strong hand on his shoulder. “Yet.”