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CHARACTERS: Niko Novak & Dom Flores Romero
WHAT: A (rainchecked) welcome back drink
WHEN: Monday, January 26, 20 AI
WHERE: Niko's office
WARNINGS: N/A
Niko had never intended to raincheck Domingo’s “welcome back” drink for very long.
He had needed time to nurse his bruised ego over the rejection, but it was easy enough to recover from that sort of wound if you simply stepped over it as if it had never happened. Easier still to set it aside in favor of other emotions: excitement about Dom joining them aboard the Mnemo for good, distress that he was only here because of such dire circumstances, anger that Domingo had hidden those circumstances from everyone — from him — for so long.
For the sake of this drink, however, Niko decides to smooth over those less convenient feelings as well. Those thoughts are filed away to the back of his mind in favor of a bottle of whiskey he had been saving for a special occasion, and for the comfort of tidying the bric-a-brac around his office. It is perhaps the only office in the Science Wing where annotated medical journals on sleep and dreams share shelf space with old copies of Soap Opera Digest and TV Guide. And, well—
A thin plume of smoke curls past Niko’s jaw and around the shell of his ear before dissolving into the shadows near the ceiling. The occasional cigarette is a guilty pleasure — one he indulges in when he’s nervous, one he should not be indulging in on this wing, but he’s positioned a fan to gently herd the smoke toward a ceiling vent. It will be fine, surely.
He’s leaning against the edge of his desk when Domingo finally arrives, and a warm smile is in place by the time Dom steps into the office proper.
“The beard really does suit you.”
While Dom had always moved too often for any one place to feel like home, that had never bothered him: his home had become a small circle of people collected way up above wherever he was stationed at any given time. He'd been able to see them and visit and catch up, but only once per year, and being aboard for even one week, surrounded by them, was still a novelty. The people who made his home were still a novelty.
People like Nikola Novak.
"How did it feel when you saw your own tastes reflected in that twenty-something's 'Kiss List'?" Dom asks as he locks the door behind himself. He lingers there, intent on cataloguing changes before Niko deigns to beckon him further in, and as though a new desk trinket would tell him every minutiae of the other man's past year.
“I would never describe you as distinguished,” Niko easily shoots back, one hand going to his chest in theatrical offense while the other gestures Dom toward one of the mismatched chairs in front of his desk. “I’ve seen you in far too many indecent situations to ever associate you with the word.”
Best not to conjure up any mental images or memories, though, and he immediately busies himself. The cigarette juts from the corner of Niko’s mouth as he quickly pours whiskey into two tumblers, sliding one across to Domingo with an airy little flourish.
“But I’ll stop there,” he adds, dark eyes bright with amusement. The sentiment is sealed with a brief pull on his cigarette, the fan whisking the smoke away toward the vent. “I should welcome you back properly, with praise and good cheer and perhaps a little fanfare.”
As Dom's not psychic (his one flaw) and thus isn't privy to Niko's inner monologue, he can't help but wonder if the cigarette is meant to conjure up anything for him. A focal point; a reminder; an inconvenience; a distraction — and exactly the psychological warfare he himself would engage in if someone had, say, spent the week treating him the way he'd been treating Nikola. It even makes him feel a little bad. (But only until Niko pulls again and his mind starts to wander, again.)
He settles back into the chair he has some recollection of being the more comfortable one and pops an ankle over his knee, already adopting the retaliatory air of someone too comfortable in a space that isn't theirs. If Niko leaves for a meeting he'll return to find out the name on the door's already changed and someone else is smoking his precious supply of cigarettes.
He holds up his glass — ready to be toasted. "And you've given me everything except the fanfare thus far, so..."
Niko transfers the cigarette to his other hand and steps in just enough to tap his glass against Dom’s.
“Very well,” he says, exhaling through a crooked smile. “To the triumphant return of the most infuriating man I have ever met. May he comport himself aboard this ship as though he possesses at least a passing acquaintance with shame — though I must admit, my hopes are not high.”
Over the rim of the crystal glass, his eyes stay on Domingo as he takes a slow and deliberate sip, lingering for longer than strictly necessary before he moves — somewhat stiffly, sans walking stick — behind the desk and settles into his chair.
Heat streams down Dom's throat alongside the whiskey and it all mingles with the same sensation curling around his ribs. He studies Niko's gait as he walks, masking a small frown with another drink before he lowers the glass to his lap; his hands might be steady for now but he's learned not to depend on them staying that way. "Thank you, Nikola. I'm honoured even if I doubt the accuracy of 'most infuriating' when I've met your roommate."
On some days, the mere mention of AdrĂan Aldana was enough to provoke an apoplectic fit in Nikola Novak. Fortunately for everyone, today was not one of those days — though his sharp features still twist reflexively into a scowl.
“Don’t be ridiculous. AdrĂan is beyond infuriating. He is something else entirely.” Across the desk, Dom has enough propriety to try and hide an amused smile behind his fist.
For a moment — unaware of any heart-to-hearts the men might already have had — Niko considers telling Dom about AdrĂan’s singular interest in one Philip de Vries. But the impulse passes, and he swirls the amber in his glass and takes another sip.
“But let us avoid the thorny topic that is Aldana,” he says instead. He taps his cigarette against the edge of his makeshift ashtray, grey flecks falling away, smoke climbing toward the ceiling in a narrow spiral. “Tell me what is going on with you.”
"I've been removed from the field and my contacts from my care, moved to a shared room in the sky, am on track to first-name basis with half of Med by next week, and Maryle's already hatched a plan that ends with matching tattoos." Dom offers his laundry list of failures matter-of-factly, not a shred of shame to be found despite how he'd felt even a few hours ago. He props his chin on his fist to watch Niko, the tilt of his mouth equivalent to a shrug. "Is there anything else to say? I was more interested in your news."
Concern deepens the lines across Niko’s face as he listens, studying Dom as though he’s trying to solve a puzzle with too many missing pieces. He wants to take this list apart — to replace the stress with a comforting word or a steadying touch. To make matters worse, he is quickly swept up in the urge to distract him with hands and teeth and tongue until Domingo can think of nothing else but him.
It’s an impulse that belongs to the past. It isn’t helpful now, and, in any case, Domingo has made his disinterest clear.
He leans back, his expression shifting to one of dubious curiosity. “And where would this tattoo be, exactly?”
Once again oblivious to Niko's internal strife, Dom peers over the rim of his glass, replies "Someone should step up since you forwent the tramp stamp," and takes a sip. "Tell me about you, Nikola. Pretend I'm back for my annual visit — you've missed me for a year and you're about to miss me for another, what have I missed?"
Niko normally has no trouble talking about himself. If anything, personal reflections tend to spill out of him too easily, much to the chagrin of everyone around him. But when he casts back through his memory, intent on untangling the last year of life aboard the Mnemosyne, he finds himself coming up oddly empty handed. These days, his life is measured in dreams observed and reports filed, rather than calendar milestones.
Letting his glass rest on the desk, he ultimately settles on: “Dreamscape operations continue to flourish, at least on the surface. We uncovered an Autonomous Corpus acolyte in Luang Prabang back in November, but they appear to have been a lone extremist rather than part of the church proper. The newer recruits who’ve joined us on the Mnemo have all proved clean.” There’s an unspoken for now hanging in the air. “Rather a relief after that married pair back in July — the implants do more harm than good, why end the best thing that’s ever happened to humanity, you know the score with those types.”
Dom tilts his head to the side. While he doesn't mirror Niko's concern from a few moments ago, his conclusion's not far off. He'd always enjoyed being the ship's novelty for a few short days, draped in attention and updates, but when he boarded his ride back to the surface and the reality of months upon months of no-contact set back in, each year became more difficult. The notion that he'd missed so much time and Niko—Nikola Novak—could only talk about his department read to Dom as unconscionable and Wrong.
His glass rattles lightly when he sets it on the desk between them and he fixes Niko with a level gaze. "You've done good work but you do know I wasn't asking about Dreamscape. I can read about all of that on my own time."
The joints of Niko’s chair creak as he leans back, thoughtful. “Truthfully, not much has changed. I’ve become appallingly dull — same routine, same friends, same enemies, same lovers. Nothing especially scandalous to report.” He pauses, takes a languid drag on his cigarette. “I did once float the idea of starting a sort of community theater, but someone said I would run it like a tyrant.”
He cast Dom a look that unmistakingly translated to can you believe it? “A preposterous accusation.”
And Dom would love to believe it if not for the barrage of mental images: armed with his walking stick and finest black turtleneck, Nikola stands before a ragtag crowd of untrained actors. Captivating, Nikola regales them with the misadventures of Elwood P. Dowd. Teetering on the precipice of both a migraine and an early retirement, Nikola pinches the bridge of his nose while in the background, his would-be cast descends into chaos.
He doesn't try to hide this smile, amusement and relief all wrapped up in something that tugs at the corners of his eyes. "You would have been precisely the tyrant they deserved," he suggests with as much diplomacy as he can muster.
“If this is the sort of support I can expect now that you’re a permanent resident,” Niko grouses, though it’s more arch than acidic, “may I introduce you to the airlock?”
A tiny little equation runs in the back of Dom's head. It's tried to prove a point all week that he's ignored nearly every time, too distracted by the heady feeling he gets when surrounded by unVeiled — like he needs to keep prodding his experiments to see what will happen because tomorrow he heads back to the surface. To another year of obscurity, anonymity, and seclusion.
In a sense, to get his money's worth.
"If you wouldn't mind waiting until we're over some picturesque seaside resort? I've heard my third career as a cabana boy's waiting."
The reference to that particular conversation earns Dom the slightest hitch of Niko’s eyebrows, followed by an aggrieved sigh. He had not fully accounted for what permanent residency might do to a tightly controlled agent like Domingo — he imagines it’s akin to abruptly granting a highly trained dog free run of a park.
“On second thought, maybe I should exercise my powers of persuasion on Bishop,” he says, and this time there is a touch of acid in it. “Perhaps there is a remote posting in the Arctic awaiting you.”
"No, I don't think you'd give me up so easily." Dom pairs his challenge with another when he leans in to rest his elbows on the desk, claiming space of Niko's he has no right to.
Niko’s eyes narrow as he contemplates swatting Dom away, his fingers betraying the impulse with the smallest twitch. “You overestimate my regard for you, Domingo.”
Dom tilts his glass in Niko's direction after he's had a drink — it might be pointed. "And you broke out the bottle you'd stashed away to... demonstrate how little you care."
At first, Niko opens his mouth to protest, closes it, opens it again, then closes it with an aggrieved little hmph. Domingo has his number, as he always does, and though Niko is the one reputed to have the biggest ego on the Mnemo, he suspects Dom could give him a run for his money. So: he lets his exasperation bleed into his voice as he rolls his shoulders in a too casual shrug.
“It seemed like as good a time as any, I suppose.”
"I remember you being a better actor," Dom muses. Much like a freight train fuelled by vexation alone, it's difficult for him to stop once he gets going unless some natural disaster suddenly occurs, like a great molasses flood or a hand clamping over his mouth. "Was that the case or am I regarding our shared past through rose-tinted glasses?"
“What can I say?” Niko spreads his hands in a show of innocence, like a man presenting empty pockets, before the cigarette returns to his lips for another pull. “I’m rusty. I haven’t done any proper acting since my twenties, and I’ve been out of the field for — God, how long has it been?”
Of course, he knew precisely — and so did Domingo.
Eight years, and Dom's done nothing but revert to old patterns of behaviour that one could argue no longer accommodate what their friendship has spent those very years morphing into. He finishes off the whiskey in his glass even though he knows he'd be wise to savour it — good things are hard to come by on the Mnemosyne. "A lifetime, surely."
A lifetime for you to tell me about your chip, Niko almost says. Even more tempting: A lifetime of lying to me by omission.
But he cannot broach this subject through passive aggression, however appealing it might be to track the microexpressions that would flicker across Domingo’s face before the shutters came down. Instead, he merely lifts his glass and offers a small smile.
“To another lifetime aboard this tin can,” he remarks, lifting his glass, “now with you as a thorn in my side.”
WHAT: A (rainchecked) welcome back drink
WHEN: Monday, January 26, 20 AI
WHERE: Niko's office
WARNINGS: N/A
Niko had never intended to raincheck Domingo’s “welcome back” drink for very long.
He had needed time to nurse his bruised ego over the rejection, but it was easy enough to recover from that sort of wound if you simply stepped over it as if it had never happened. Easier still to set it aside in favor of other emotions: excitement about Dom joining them aboard the Mnemo for good, distress that he was only here because of such dire circumstances, anger that Domingo had hidden those circumstances from everyone — from him — for so long.
For the sake of this drink, however, Niko decides to smooth over those less convenient feelings as well. Those thoughts are filed away to the back of his mind in favor of a bottle of whiskey he had been saving for a special occasion, and for the comfort of tidying the bric-a-brac around his office. It is perhaps the only office in the Science Wing where annotated medical journals on sleep and dreams share shelf space with old copies of Soap Opera Digest and TV Guide. And, well—
A thin plume of smoke curls past Niko’s jaw and around the shell of his ear before dissolving into the shadows near the ceiling. The occasional cigarette is a guilty pleasure — one he indulges in when he’s nervous, one he should not be indulging in on this wing, but he’s positioned a fan to gently herd the smoke toward a ceiling vent. It will be fine, surely.
He’s leaning against the edge of his desk when Domingo finally arrives, and a warm smile is in place by the time Dom steps into the office proper.
“The beard really does suit you.”
While Dom had always moved too often for any one place to feel like home, that had never bothered him: his home had become a small circle of people collected way up above wherever he was stationed at any given time. He'd been able to see them and visit and catch up, but only once per year, and being aboard for even one week, surrounded by them, was still a novelty. The people who made his home were still a novelty.
People like Nikola Novak.
"How did it feel when you saw your own tastes reflected in that twenty-something's 'Kiss List'?" Dom asks as he locks the door behind himself. He lingers there, intent on cataloguing changes before Niko deigns to beckon him further in, and as though a new desk trinket would tell him every minutiae of the other man's past year.
“I would never describe you as distinguished,” Niko easily shoots back, one hand going to his chest in theatrical offense while the other gestures Dom toward one of the mismatched chairs in front of his desk. “I’ve seen you in far too many indecent situations to ever associate you with the word.”
Best not to conjure up any mental images or memories, though, and he immediately busies himself. The cigarette juts from the corner of Niko’s mouth as he quickly pours whiskey into two tumblers, sliding one across to Domingo with an airy little flourish.
“But I’ll stop there,” he adds, dark eyes bright with amusement. The sentiment is sealed with a brief pull on his cigarette, the fan whisking the smoke away toward the vent. “I should welcome you back properly, with praise and good cheer and perhaps a little fanfare.”
As Dom's not psychic (his one flaw) and thus isn't privy to Niko's inner monologue, he can't help but wonder if the cigarette is meant to conjure up anything for him. A focal point; a reminder; an inconvenience; a distraction — and exactly the psychological warfare he himself would engage in if someone had, say, spent the week treating him the way he'd been treating Nikola. It even makes him feel a little bad. (But only until Niko pulls again and his mind starts to wander, again.)
He settles back into the chair he has some recollection of being the more comfortable one and pops an ankle over his knee, already adopting the retaliatory air of someone too comfortable in a space that isn't theirs. If Niko leaves for a meeting he'll return to find out the name on the door's already changed and someone else is smoking his precious supply of cigarettes.
He holds up his glass — ready to be toasted. "And you've given me everything except the fanfare thus far, so..."
Niko transfers the cigarette to his other hand and steps in just enough to tap his glass against Dom’s.
“Very well,” he says, exhaling through a crooked smile. “To the triumphant return of the most infuriating man I have ever met. May he comport himself aboard this ship as though he possesses at least a passing acquaintance with shame — though I must admit, my hopes are not high.”
Over the rim of the crystal glass, his eyes stay on Domingo as he takes a slow and deliberate sip, lingering for longer than strictly necessary before he moves — somewhat stiffly, sans walking stick — behind the desk and settles into his chair.
Heat streams down Dom's throat alongside the whiskey and it all mingles with the same sensation curling around his ribs. He studies Niko's gait as he walks, masking a small frown with another drink before he lowers the glass to his lap; his hands might be steady for now but he's learned not to depend on them staying that way. "Thank you, Nikola. I'm honoured even if I doubt the accuracy of 'most infuriating' when I've met your roommate."
On some days, the mere mention of AdrĂan Aldana was enough to provoke an apoplectic fit in Nikola Novak. Fortunately for everyone, today was not one of those days — though his sharp features still twist reflexively into a scowl.
“Don’t be ridiculous. AdrĂan is beyond infuriating. He is something else entirely.” Across the desk, Dom has enough propriety to try and hide an amused smile behind his fist.
For a moment — unaware of any heart-to-hearts the men might already have had — Niko considers telling Dom about AdrĂan’s singular interest in one Philip de Vries. But the impulse passes, and he swirls the amber in his glass and takes another sip.
“But let us avoid the thorny topic that is Aldana,” he says instead. He taps his cigarette against the edge of his makeshift ashtray, grey flecks falling away, smoke climbing toward the ceiling in a narrow spiral. “Tell me what is going on with you.”
"I've been removed from the field and my contacts from my care, moved to a shared room in the sky, am on track to first-name basis with half of Med by next week, and Maryle's already hatched a plan that ends with matching tattoos." Dom offers his laundry list of failures matter-of-factly, not a shred of shame to be found despite how he'd felt even a few hours ago. He props his chin on his fist to watch Niko, the tilt of his mouth equivalent to a shrug. "Is there anything else to say? I was more interested in your news."
Concern deepens the lines across Niko’s face as he listens, studying Dom as though he’s trying to solve a puzzle with too many missing pieces. He wants to take this list apart — to replace the stress with a comforting word or a steadying touch. To make matters worse, he is quickly swept up in the urge to distract him with hands and teeth and tongue until Domingo can think of nothing else but him.
It’s an impulse that belongs to the past. It isn’t helpful now, and, in any case, Domingo has made his disinterest clear.
He leans back, his expression shifting to one of dubious curiosity. “And where would this tattoo be, exactly?”
Once again oblivious to Niko's internal strife, Dom peers over the rim of his glass, replies "Someone should step up since you forwent the tramp stamp," and takes a sip. "Tell me about you, Nikola. Pretend I'm back for my annual visit — you've missed me for a year and you're about to miss me for another, what have I missed?"
Niko normally has no trouble talking about himself. If anything, personal reflections tend to spill out of him too easily, much to the chagrin of everyone around him. But when he casts back through his memory, intent on untangling the last year of life aboard the Mnemosyne, he finds himself coming up oddly empty handed. These days, his life is measured in dreams observed and reports filed, rather than calendar milestones.
Letting his glass rest on the desk, he ultimately settles on: “Dreamscape operations continue to flourish, at least on the surface. We uncovered an Autonomous Corpus acolyte in Luang Prabang back in November, but they appear to have been a lone extremist rather than part of the church proper. The newer recruits who’ve joined us on the Mnemo have all proved clean.” There’s an unspoken for now hanging in the air. “Rather a relief after that married pair back in July — the implants do more harm than good, why end the best thing that’s ever happened to humanity, you know the score with those types.”
Dom tilts his head to the side. While he doesn't mirror Niko's concern from a few moments ago, his conclusion's not far off. He'd always enjoyed being the ship's novelty for a few short days, draped in attention and updates, but when he boarded his ride back to the surface and the reality of months upon months of no-contact set back in, each year became more difficult. The notion that he'd missed so much time and Niko—Nikola Novak—could only talk about his department read to Dom as unconscionable and Wrong.
His glass rattles lightly when he sets it on the desk between them and he fixes Niko with a level gaze. "You've done good work but you do know I wasn't asking about Dreamscape. I can read about all of that on my own time."
The joints of Niko’s chair creak as he leans back, thoughtful. “Truthfully, not much has changed. I’ve become appallingly dull — same routine, same friends, same enemies, same lovers. Nothing especially scandalous to report.” He pauses, takes a languid drag on his cigarette. “I did once float the idea of starting a sort of community theater, but someone said I would run it like a tyrant.”
He cast Dom a look that unmistakingly translated to can you believe it? “A preposterous accusation.”
And Dom would love to believe it if not for the barrage of mental images: armed with his walking stick and finest black turtleneck, Nikola stands before a ragtag crowd of untrained actors. Captivating, Nikola regales them with the misadventures of Elwood P. Dowd. Teetering on the precipice of both a migraine and an early retirement, Nikola pinches the bridge of his nose while in the background, his would-be cast descends into chaos.
He doesn't try to hide this smile, amusement and relief all wrapped up in something that tugs at the corners of his eyes. "You would have been precisely the tyrant they deserved," he suggests with as much diplomacy as he can muster.
“If this is the sort of support I can expect now that you’re a permanent resident,” Niko grouses, though it’s more arch than acidic, “may I introduce you to the airlock?”
A tiny little equation runs in the back of Dom's head. It's tried to prove a point all week that he's ignored nearly every time, too distracted by the heady feeling he gets when surrounded by unVeiled — like he needs to keep prodding his experiments to see what will happen because tomorrow he heads back to the surface. To another year of obscurity, anonymity, and seclusion.
In a sense, to get his money's worth.
"If you wouldn't mind waiting until we're over some picturesque seaside resort? I've heard my third career as a cabana boy's waiting."
The reference to that particular conversation earns Dom the slightest hitch of Niko’s eyebrows, followed by an aggrieved sigh. He had not fully accounted for what permanent residency might do to a tightly controlled agent like Domingo — he imagines it’s akin to abruptly granting a highly trained dog free run of a park.
“On second thought, maybe I should exercise my powers of persuasion on Bishop,” he says, and this time there is a touch of acid in it. “Perhaps there is a remote posting in the Arctic awaiting you.”
"No, I don't think you'd give me up so easily." Dom pairs his challenge with another when he leans in to rest his elbows on the desk, claiming space of Niko's he has no right to.
Niko’s eyes narrow as he contemplates swatting Dom away, his fingers betraying the impulse with the smallest twitch. “You overestimate my regard for you, Domingo.”
Dom tilts his glass in Niko's direction after he's had a drink — it might be pointed. "And you broke out the bottle you'd stashed away to... demonstrate how little you care."
At first, Niko opens his mouth to protest, closes it, opens it again, then closes it with an aggrieved little hmph. Domingo has his number, as he always does, and though Niko is the one reputed to have the biggest ego on the Mnemo, he suspects Dom could give him a run for his money. So: he lets his exasperation bleed into his voice as he rolls his shoulders in a too casual shrug.
“It seemed like as good a time as any, I suppose.”
"I remember you being a better actor," Dom muses. Much like a freight train fuelled by vexation alone, it's difficult for him to stop once he gets going unless some natural disaster suddenly occurs, like a great molasses flood or a hand clamping over his mouth. "Was that the case or am I regarding our shared past through rose-tinted glasses?"
“What can I say?” Niko spreads his hands in a show of innocence, like a man presenting empty pockets, before the cigarette returns to his lips for another pull. “I’m rusty. I haven’t done any proper acting since my twenties, and I’ve been out of the field for — God, how long has it been?”
Of course, he knew precisely — and so did Domingo.
Eight years, and Dom's done nothing but revert to old patterns of behaviour that one could argue no longer accommodate what their friendship has spent those very years morphing into. He finishes off the whiskey in his glass even though he knows he'd be wise to savour it — good things are hard to come by on the Mnemosyne. "A lifetime, surely."
A lifetime for you to tell me about your chip, Niko almost says. Even more tempting: A lifetime of lying to me by omission.
But he cannot broach this subject through passive aggression, however appealing it might be to track the microexpressions that would flicker across Domingo’s face before the shutters came down. Instead, he merely lifts his glass and offers a small smile.
“To another lifetime aboard this tin can,” he remarks, lifting his glass, “now with you as a thorn in my side.”
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