“A plan, he said,” RJ Reese-Riggs grumbled as he propped the bar up, ignoring the pool of whatever it was by his elbow. Could have been verkalian rum, or it could have been blood. Between the viscosity and the dim lighting in the imaginatively named Targ’s Head, there was no way to know. What he did know was that so far, the carpet had tried to hitch a ride on his boots, the smoke in here cut the visibility by half, and the Admiral’s brat trying to be inconspicuous over the other side of the bar was about to give him a stomach ulcer. “It’s a shit plan. Why did we agree to this?”

The question was levelled at Raan Mason, leaning against the bar next to RJ, a mug of something with an alcohol content that made RJ’s liver cry just at the smell in his hand. The big guy just shrugged. “Because he’s an admiral’s brat, and he’s the boss?”

RJ blinked and grumbled some more, downing his whiskey in one shot. It burned all the way down his stomach as he glowered at Murphy again. Wide smile, perfect teeth… that hair. It was like someone had taken the stereotype of a fleet captain and thrown him into a pirate fancy dress costume. Most of the crowd in the bar were eyeing him with suspicion and the ferengi he was talking too kept trying to back away.

“God, he’s so clean cut, it makes my teeth ache. Like, literally ache. Anyone with eyes in the back of their head can see he’s Starfleet. This is such a shit idea. Someone’s going to shoot him soon, and then where will we be?”

What he meant was, where would he be? RJ wasn’t liked amongst the ranks of the admiralty for… reasons. Getting the son of an admiral shot though, that was a new one. Usually he just got caught in compromising positions with them.

Mason arched an eyebrow and just grunted, like he hadn’t a care in the world. Unlike Murphy, who didn’t seem to be able to stop smiling and looked one step away from throwing off the ratty coat he was wearing to reveal a sparkling captain’s uniform beneath, Mason looked the complete opposite.

No one in here would ever suspect him of being a Starfleet captain in disguise.

A grubby cut-off leather donkey jacket revealed brawny arms covered in tattoos RJ never knew the big guy had. Under it, a tatty vest stretched across his wide chest, tucked into combats that had seen better days. In fact, the only thing Mason was wearing that didn’t look like they should be consigned to recycling were a pair of heavy combat boots. Not federation, that was for sure. They looked like they’d been designed to crush skulls or something.

“No one’s going to shoot Murphy,” Mason rumbled, taking another swallow of the paint stripper in his mug. The dim overhead lighting glinted off the heavy silver rings on each of his fingers. RJ shuddered and motioned for another whiskey from the bartender. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He nodded. Mason didn’t appear to be watching the bar or their ridiculously happy, smiling CO–seriously, what starfleet officer was that happy about being on an away mission–but RJ knew better than to argue with Mason. He’d probably know to the millimetre where Murphy was in case he needed to shoot someone trying to sneak up on him and kill him. For that matter, he probably knew where everyone in the damn bar was and when they took a breath.

“You do realise the only stupider thing than bringing both ship CO’s out on an away mission would have been bringing Rennox as well, right?”

Mason slid him a sideways look. The skin crinkled at the corner of his eyes as amusement washed through the pale blue.

“Oh my god, please tell me you didn’t?” RJ groaned.

Mason grinned, revealing a gold tooth and nodded toward the main area of the bar again. Sure enough, Rennox was heading toward Murphy, his lip practically stuck out in concentration to avoid spilling the two pints he was carrying.

He had. He seriously had.

Two thoughts stuck out in RJ’s mind.

The first, that Mason wasn’t this stupid, led to the second. Mason wasn’t this stupid, so if he’d done this, then…

RJ turned to face him, his expression hardening.

“Okay, what aren’t you telling me?”

“Oh sweetheart,” a deep voice behind them drawled. “I suspect there’s a lot he isn’t telling you.”