Renegotiations

Posted on Wed Feb 11th, 2026 @ 7:03pm by Lieutenant Colonel Jesse Moriarty & Lieutenant JG Constance 'Connie' Montoya

2,412 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: Counsellor's Office
Timeline: Early 2389

Counsellor Connie Montoya let out a soft breath as she scrolled the PADD down with her thumb. Her eyes took in the service record with the image pinned neatly at the top. Regulation backdrop, the same harsh light that made everyone look faintly spectral. Brown hair worn a little longer than most, scars softened but not erased by time. Dark eyes that had learned to look steadily at the lens. A man at attention, his jaw set, but there was no hiding the history behind the lines.

It would have been a handsome face in different circumstances. Here it was just another file photograph, meant to be objective, stripped of context. She doubted objectivity was possible in Jesse Moriarty’s case. The picture did not show the weight of a pardon stamped across his life.

Her Assam sat cooling on the desk, a thin curl of steam still rising. She reached for it, let the warmth settle into her fingers, and read again. The dates were stark on his Federation history.

2370–73. Maquis.
Of course. A single word, neat as a pin, papering over three years of blood.
2373. Federation Ground Forces training.
2373–75. Private, Lance Corporal.
2375. Medical leave.
2376–80. Officer training.

And on it went. The neatness of dates and postings belied the chaos that had led him here. Starfleet had a way of sanitising the appearance of files. Make it easier to read for Commanding Officers or department heads. She always found it disturbing, how easily the computer could just make it all seem neat.

She had seen plenty of Maquis files over the years, although she rarely worked with them. Each one a line drawn between fury and survival. Jesse’s was no different. His father executed by Cardassians. His mother compromising herself and, worse, compromising him. A boy given over to an officer as if he were property. Seventeen years old when the Maquis stormed the compound and offered him a way out. He had taken it, as anyone would. That decision had sealed his adolescence in blood.

On the file it was just a word. Pardon. Neat word for a life chewed up and spat back out. A clean slate, as though it could erase what had come before. She knew better. A pardon never erased anything. It simply made the present possible.

She rubbed at the back of her neck, hair falling loose over her hand. The file noted chronic injuries, therapy, PTSD. Boxes ticked. Cleared for active duty. He was fit, operational, resilient. She had read enough of these lines to know they were half-truths. Resilience was another word for scar tissue. And the counsellors who had scratched the surface, who had helped and hindered… it was a lot in there. Between the lines. Between the notes.

Connie skimmed the notes from commanding officers. “Dedicated.” “Relentless.” “Struggles with rest.” “Responds well to responsibility.” The language was cautious. Admiration edged with wariness. They respected his commitment, but they kept watch for the cracks.

She worked a lot of Ground Forces personnel here. People who wore the shadow of the war on their skin, in their eyes. Moriarty was different. Different background, different perspective. She finished her tea and set the mug down with a quiet click. The record told her where he had been. Her task was to find out what he had carried forward, and what he had left behind.

There was also a line. Major Moriarty was cleared for duty. So this was part of his scheduled therapeutic oversight. Which, in all honesty, was just a fancy way of saying check-ins.

She stood and carried her mug to the side, moving with the steady rhythm of habit. On the low cabinet sat a replicated set she had chosen herself long ago: a green teapot with a rounded belly, two matching cups, a sugar bowl and a small jug of milk. The glaze was simple, earthy, nothing ornate. Just enough weight to feel real in her hands. She measured the Assam carefully, the leaves releasing their sharp, tannic scent as the hot water touched them. She put the lid on, taking a soft breath.

The cups were already waiting on their saucers, pale porcelain against the green pot. She always poured for two, whether the other person accepted it or not. Sugar tongs rested in the bowl, the milk shining in its jug. A small tableau of civility, a quiet counterweight to the files of blood and scar tissue on her desk.

Her hand went to her non-regulation earrings as she stepped back, considering the set. She decided to let them stay. Unlike some, she suspected he would not be distracted by them.

The chime sounded in the office, and after a polite pause that awaited her response, Jesse Moriarty let himself in. He was wearing casual clothing rather than his uniform; a pair of black cargopants and a thick, dark grey jumper. It somehow didn't feel right talking about mental wellbeing wearing a uniform. His dark, slightly curled hair had been tamed back and he looked calm, if cautious. But then, that was a fairly standard expression for him. "Lieutenant Montoya? Major Jesse Moriarty, I believe you are expecting me?"

"I am," she said and smiled as she straightened, meeting his eyes. She took in his appearance as well, the more relaxed clothes. "It's nice to meet you, Major Moriarty. Please, call me Connie. Can I interest you in some tea?"

"Sure," Moriarty said quietly, almost shrugging but not quite. "You should call me Jesse," he added, but despite suggesting the informal name, he didn't sit without being offered a chair out of habit.

She motioned for the chairs. "Please, sit down and get comfortable, Jesse," she said, meeting his eyes at saying his name. She then nodded and moved to pour the tea for them. "Do you take milk or sugar? This is Assam...it can handle either, or both."

Moriarty watched with mild surprise as he sat down. Assam? A type of tea maybe? He honestly wouldn't know. Frankly, so long as tea was hot, he was happy. "Anything but tepid," he assured.

"A dirty word if I ever heard one," she said and smiled as she took the cup and saucer, offering them to him as she met his eyes. "Tepid."

"Not hot, not cold..." he took the cup with a small, half smile, shaking his head lightly as he looked to her with honest eyes. "Indecisive. Be one or the other."

"You like decisiveness?" Connie asked with a small smile, sitting down and taking her own cup to sip the tea. "I suppose it is a necessary talent in your line of work."

"Indecisiveness can get people killed," he replied quietly, but with conviction. He'd seen it often enough. "As can standing still."

She gave a small nod, her eyes on him. "So you move," she said, her voice soft. "Forward. With purpose...is that what made you want to become an officer after the war?"

Moriarty fell silent at the question. It was something he wasn't even sure of himself. "I...don't know," he admitted quietly and honestly. There wasn't any point hiding the facts; they were all plain enough in his record for her to see. "I'd like to pretend I'm noble, but there was a solid dash of self-preservation in the decision. I was given a pardon for my time in the Maquis, so long as I served the Federation in the war. But when the war ended, well...who knew if old bargains would be held."

Her eyes rested on him at the words. She took a slow breath, feeling a tug inside of her. It wasn't what Starfleet should do...make someone feel that their place here was fragile. A deal was a deal. He had paid in blood for something she...had to admit, she understood. She understood why he had joined the Maquis, why he had fought in such a way. Because the Federation had been complicit...had surrendered colonies to the Cardassians, taken people from their homes or left them there to suffer the consequences. She looked away, reaching for the teapot, to refill their cups. "It should have been made clear to you that the pardon did not come with an expiration date once you served the Federation," she said bluntly and met his eyes, holding them. She couldn't apologise...it was not her doing. But she could recognise what had not been done. "And how...how does the rank fit you?"

Moriarty was surprised by the candid words, but they helped to ease an old ache he'd learnt to ignore, along with his other war scars. "What does my service record say about that?" he chuckled softly, implying the proof was in the pudding.

She gave a small smile, giving a nod. "Exemplary. You work hard," she said before she tilted her head. "Some would say too hard at times. You don't have to prove your worth, Jesse..." she trailed off a little, her eyes gentle. "Anyone who looks at your record will know it."

Moriarty leant forward at that, his dark eyes meeting hers earnestly. "Of course I have to prove it..." he replied quietly and bluntly. "I was just some cast-off kid, handed over to a Cardassian officer, from a backwater colony that was so unimportant that the Federation was happy to let the Cardassians fly in and take it. I fought with the Maquis, and when that all went wrong, I took up arms for the Federation in exchange for a pardon. I will always be proving my worth to someone, until the day I die."

Connie held his eyes, not looking away. She met his intensity squarely. "I think you are trying to prove your worth to yourself," she said, her voice even. "To that cast-off kid from a backwater colony the Federation abandoned to the Cardassians." It was a bold move, one she knew she was taking a risk at. But she...had a feeling he'd respond better to it than her dancing around his wounds. It wasn't cruelty. It was clarity. And she suspected he'd recognise the difference.

Jesse's throat tightened at the words, his breath strained as he finally averted his eyes. He supposed he had brought it on himself, being so blunt. "That kid had a lot to learn. But he learnt if bloody fast."

"He shouldn't have had to," Connie countered as she watched him. She let that hang in the air between them, not pushing any further. She could see she was approaching a line with him, especially during a first meeting. Trust needed time. This was already a lot in a first session. So she took a step back by reaching for the teapot and topping up their drinks, making sure with her hand that the tea was still hot. Not tepid. Hot. It meant she wasn't watching him anymore and the sound of the liquid pouring, her adding milk to her own...stirring with the spoon. It broke the silence with something else.

"But that's life," Moriarty shrugged, summoning that familiar shroud of indifference that was easier to settle into than any real emotional connection. "A long chain of events that you just have to find the best card in your hand to throw down."

Connie met his eyes before she took a deeper breath. "Yes. But...even when you do, there's...emotions tied into it. And sometimes, we...react to things in less than healthy ways," she sat down again and sipped her tea. "Jesse, would you be opposed to us meeting...let's say once a month here? To...talk. To maybe work through some of the thoughts and emotions connected to your place here?" She phrased it like that on purpose. He was not a danger to himself, or anyone else. Even so, she wanted to work with him.

The deliberate phrasing made him chuckle weakly. He rubbed the back of his neck, sitting back as he let out a long, heavy breath. "Does that mean you think I'd benefit from it?"

"I think so. Even if all it does it put things in perspective for when you're not in a combat situation," Connie said with a small smile, holding his eyes. "Sometimes, it is just about having someone to hear you. Or give you the tools to tackle it yourself."

"I've had to go to counselling a lot during my time with Starfleet," Moriarty replied softly. It wasn't an admission, not really. She'd be able to see it in his record. "What if I'm as fixed as I can ever be."

"I am not out to fix you," she said, shaking her head. "Because I don't think you're any more broken than the rest of us. You've been to counselling...function well, score extremely well on all the tests. You have your PTSD firmly under control..." she shifted a little, just to move one knee over the other. "But maybe sometimes, you need a space to loosen that control a little."

"Loosen it?" Jesse chuckled softly at that, but it was a genuine sound, not a bitter one. "Counsellor, it's taken a long time to figure out how to tighten my grip on it..."

Connie gave a small smile at the warmth of his chuckle. "Controlled release, then," she said, one eyebrow lifting slightly. "I'm not asking you to give up control, Jesse. Just to consider that too much compartmentalisation...eventually leaks." She set her cup down, her tone softening, but steady. "I'm not asking you to surrender anything. Only to make sure you're not suffocating other parts of yourself just to stay functional." Her eyes held his, calm and clear. "That kind of control can keep you safe. But it can also stop you breathing."

"Gives me a hell of a neckache too," Jesse chuckled weakly, rubbing the back of it absently. He frequently woke up in the middle of the night, clenching his jaw. But that was a detail too far to share. "I suppose...an hour here and there won't hurt."

"Exactly...and there'll be warm tea too," Connie said as she watched him, her eyes quiet. "Not tepid, I promise." That was one thing she could promise him. She couldn't promise him magic cures or tools...but she could promise him warm tea.

OFF:

Lt. Colonel Jesse Moriarty
CO Federation Ground Forces
USS Guinevere

&

Lt. jg Connie Montoya
Counsellor
USS Guinevere

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