Posted by Lieutenant Commander Faye Calloway (Chief Intelligence Officer) in Introducing Rollin, Lounge Host Extraordinaire

Posted by Civilian Rollin (Lounge Host) in Introducing Rollin, Lounge Host Extraordinaire

Posted by Lieutenant Commander Faye Calloway (Chief Intelligence Officer) in Introducing Rollin, Lounge Host Extraordinaire
Posted by… suppressed (3) by the Post Ghost! 👻

(snip)

He tapped one nail against the rim of his glass. A small, thoughtful sound.

“I can feel that weight on this ship,” he admitted. “Even in the walls. Not trauma—exactly—but… memory. Residue. It’s the kind of place that needs tending in ways Starfleet doesn’t write procedures for.”

A beat.

“Maybe I’m here to pour drinks. Maybe I’m here to remind people they’re more than what the mission asks of them.”

He glanced at her sidelong, a touch of mischief returning to the corner of his smile.

“Or maybe I’m here to cause a bit of harmless chaos in the name of joy. But don’t tell Command—that’s between us.”

“Hey, Command and I have our own conflicting relationship. Toss you in the mix and who the hell knows what will happen,” she said, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“Oh, darling,” he whispered conspiratorially, leaning in just enough, “you say that like it isn’t the most tempting invitation I’ve had all week.”

“I’m an Intelligence officer, whatever that might mean in the moment, and for better or worse. Tempting invitations are our bread and butter. Or so people tell me.” Faye held her hand to the side of her mouth and feigned a whisper. “I’m really not so great at the deceptive cloak and dagger stuff. But you knew that already.”

Rollin’s smile curved slowly, knowingly, as if her confession had only confirmed what he’d already tucked away like a favorite lyric.

He leaned in, mirroring her mock whisper with a velvet murmur of his own.

“Oh, I know,” he said, eyes gleaming with quiet mischief. “That’s what makes you so dangerously refreshing.”

Then, settling more fully into his seat:

“So, Faye Calloway… tell me something not in your file. Something small. A favorite song. A terrible habit. Something that makes you feel like yourself.”

Faye eyed him skeptically before downing another sip. He really didn’t know what he was asking, did he? Faye Calloway… do small? Ha!

He lifted his glass slightly in a lazy toast.

“I’ll trade you, if you like.”

He leaned in just slightly—not conspiratorial, but personal.

Faye rested her arm on the bar top, slouching into it a bit, relaxing into ‘story time’. After all, she did love story time. Both hearing and giving the stories.

“When I was seventeen, I lived for exactly one season in the engine alcove of a retired pleasure cruiser orbiting Betazed. Don’t ask how I got there—it’s a blur of bad decisions and one very persuasive Rigellian.”

He paused for effect, then softened.

“I used to sneak into the observation dome at night. No lights, no noise. Just me, the stars, and this old, cracked set of symphonic recordings someone had left behind.”

“There was this one piece—a cello solo, slow and aching—and every time I played it, I cried. Quietly. Every single time. No drama. No witnesses. Just… release.”

He glanced back at her with the ghost of that younger boy in his expression.

Oh how she knew that feling, and had seen it it in others. In one person in particular, evne though they had never spoke of it directly, even after all these years and their reunion.

“To this day, I still don’t know the name of the piece. I’ve never found it again. But I hum it sometimes when I’m alone.”

He smiled, a touch sheepish now.

“There. A terribly unmarketable truth. No robes. No rings. Just me. And a cello. And space.”

A beat.

“Your turn.”

-Rollin
Just Rollin. That’s quite enough, Darling.

She breathed in and out. In and out. Part of it was giving his story space, since small or no, a personal revelation deserved that much at least.

Faye hadn’t agreed formally to the exchange but in her mind her staying to listen had been the moment of agreement. She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “My mother is a gifted musician. And I don’t use the word gifted lightly. And her mother before her was as well. And while music seeps into me as well, I can’t play it. But I feel it. Like a heart beat. So I dance. Mostly hiphop styles. Especially pop n’ lock. That’s my groove. Take me to a club playing EDM and it’s like my skin comes alive and I inhabit the beat. No more, no less. So far, only my husband has seen me actually dance, but it’s a kind of freedom I can’t really describe. Other than that, the only dance I’ve done is with my best friend who was teaching me swing dancing before I left my last ship. But I haven’t been able to hear the music since I came here. Not yet anyway.” Faye was not a patient person, but with this it felt vital to wait till the compulsion took her properly, or else it would be wasted.

~Faye Calloway, CIO

Rollin didn’t speak right away.

He let the silence stretch, reverent and warm, as if her words had spun some gossamer thread between them—and he didn’t dare break it.

Then, quietly—his voice almost a hum:

“Hiphop and swing… darling, you contain multitudes.”

Faye chuckled, more to herself than anything. “You’ve barely scratched the surface.” It wasn’t ego, just a hard life and many years of being and doing many things, not all of which were pleasant or useful.

He leaned forward on his elbows, not dramatic this time—just present.

“That’s what I love about movement,” he said softly. “It’s all truth. No translation. No permission needed. Just feeling made visible.” A beat. “You don’t have to explain it. I saw it, just now. The way your face shifted. The way your body remembered. You still hear the music. Even if it’s quiet for now.”

Then, with a soft flicker of his old sparkle:

“And if you ever feel the urge to pop n’ lock near The Temple, I do hope you’ll allow me to bear witness. I promise not to faint. Though I can’t guarantee I won’t applaud.”

He offered her a wink—less flirty than fond.

“Besides, I’ve always believed the crew should see their command staff dance now and then. Reminds them we’re not just made of protocols and replicator rations.”

A pause, then quietly:

“I’m glad you told me.”

And he meant it. All of it.

-Rollin
Just Rollin. That’s quite enough, Darling.

She held his gaze, accepting his words at face value- something that was her nature but often a social pitfall. This felt genuine. “If I feel the urge outside of my quarters, I’ll be sure to groove in this direction,” Faye said, breaking into a genuine smile. A full smile was not something that came out constantly, saved for the moments and people who had the capacity to not just draw them from her, but appreciate their presence.

“I don’t like change, as I’ve said. The previous hostess of this place and I had an arrangement. But our work aligned and that was useful. That won’t work so much with you, except…” Her brain sifted through some variables and formed possibilities.

She sighed. “People see the division colours and they hear some of the rumours and believe they understand who I am. But they are almost always wrong. I told you it took me a long time to let myself be seen. Back then, it was dangerous. I could not be Faye Calloway, former Maquis and survivor of a massacre. So I became anyone else that made sense at the time. Hence the freighters and a list of aliases.” She took a sip of the drink and folded her arms on the bar top. “When I let that all be a part of my truth again, I got… mixed results. Enough time had passed that the Maquis were no longer the enemy, but I encountered people whose families had tangled with us at one point or another. They had a lot of unspent anger and no one to direct it at because most people were dead or in jail. But there I was, so very convenient.”

“You will hear a lot of different things as you settle in here. The grapevine is thick and productive on a ship this big, but it also means it gets distorted.” Faye eyed him intently, half squinting as if trying to decide something. “I want you to ask me for the truth about any given rumour. I used to be ashamed of my past, but that’s an old story I laid to bed. Not that any of it is easy or doesn’t jump out from the shadows to spook me now and again. But I am not a social person, Rollin. Crowds make me uneasy. I will attend the staff parties, but always be secretly wishing I was elsewhere. So I need The Temple to be a sanctuary of sorts. A place where I am my awkward self and also the Intelligence enigma the crew loves to gossip about. Trust me, I earn it,” she said with a chuckle. She tapped the bar with her index finger. “I have a therapist, and I have friends too. But I need something else as I start to tackle big things for my future. I’m not sure what that is just yet, but I suspect you’ll know before I do.”

~Faye Calloway, CIO

Rollin listened—not performatively, not politely, but wholly.

He didn’t blink when she said Maquis. Didn’t flinch at massacre. He knew ghosts when they entered the room, and he did not ask them to leave. He simply made space.

When she finished, when her words settled between them like the last note of a sacred hymn, he didn’t try to wrap it in a bow. Didn’t reach for some glittering phrase to gild the truth she’d offered.

Instead, he set down his glass with ceremonial grace.

Then, slowly—deliberately—he reached for the heavy silver ring on his right hand. It was ornate, older than it looked, etched with Deltan script and tiny opaline inlays that caught the light like tear tracks.

He slid it from his finger.

“I don’t take this off for just anyone,” he said, voice low but clear. “It was given to me by someone who believed in promises.”

He placed it gently on the bartop between them, not pressed into her palm, not demanding she understand its meaning—but simply offered, placing it there, like a candle on an altar.

Faye blinked and stared at the ring. Even off his finger it held weight, meaning. She understood objects having deep meaning- she had some of her own.

“You may keep it,” he said softly, the usual sparkle in his voice softened now to something steadier. “As a token of my promise that I’ll never believe the rumors without hearing the truth from your own lips. Deal?”

Her eyes flicked upwards, blinking.

He didn’t ask her to wear it.

Didn’t demand a vow in return.

Just let the moment stand, unadorned, like truth always is.

And then—just enough smile to say this was still Rollin, and not some ghost of freighters past:

“Promise it’s not a marriage proposal, darling. I’d never do that without music, moonlight, and a better outfit.”

-Rollin
Just Rollin. That’s quite enough, Darling.

“I’m already married,” she said simply.

Faye felt each subsequent breath constrict in her chest. Her heart raced. She looked down at the ring. Frowned. She looked back up at him. “I don’t understand.” The importance of the ring to him didn’t match her casual comment about rumours. They were inconsistent, unequal. She wasn’t asking anything life altering from him and yet his actions made it seem like she had. She had to force herself to breathe, to stay rooted on the bar stool and not flee to the safety of her quarters and Tess.

~Faye Calloway, CIO

Rollin did not laugh.

He could have—a lesser man might’ve, just to smooth the moment, to dispel her panic with a flick of charm or a wave of words.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he held still—kind, composed, and utterly present. His expression softened at the edges, not with pity, but with understanding. And perhaps a flicker of guilt that he’d asked for poetry from someone who dealt in survival.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

The words came low and warm, the way you might speak to a startled animal—no sudden movements, no sharp edges.

“I didn’t mean to confuse you.”

He reached forward—not to take the ring back, not to press it further—but simply to nudge it. Gently. Turning it so the opaline inlays caught the light again. Small galaxies, contained in silver.

“It’s not a grand gesture. Not that kind.” A wry smile played at the corner of his mouth. “No vows. No expectations.”

He glanced up at her now, gaze steady. Kind.

“It’s a token. A placeholder, if you will. For trust. For understanding. For… friendship. Just something small and solid to remind you that not everyone wants a piece of you.” A pause. “Some of us just want to share the quiet.”

He tapped the bartop gently beside the ring.

“You don’t have to take it. You don’t have to keep it. You don’t even have to understand it—not all at once. But it’s yours to consider.”

A breath. Not deep, not performative. Just… centered.

“And if I’ve misstepped, Faye—if I asked for a moment you weren’t ready to give—then that’s on me. No harm. No offense taken.”

Then, quieter still, with a smile that held no sparkle but all the light in the world:

“You don’t owe me clarity. You don’t owe me anything.”

He leaned back, just slightly, letting the moment breathe.

-Rollin
Just Rollin. That’s quite enough, Darling.