Old Friends, Safe Conversations

Posted on Fri Dec 12th, 2025 @ 9:31pm by Vice Admiral Sidra MacLaren

2,094 words; about a 10 minute read

Mission: Second Light
Location: MacLaren's Quarters

The living area was dim, the lights pulled low enough to take the edge off the long day without pretending it had not happened. Will was slouched deep in one of the chairs, one leg hooked over the arm, the other foot braced on the floor. The posture was casual, practiced. The kind of sprawl that tried very hard to look alert while losing the fight minute by minute.
The cat had claimed him as furniture.

Curled against his side, brown ticked fur barely visible in the low light, she rose and fell with slow, satisfied breaths. Entirely unconcerned with the human effort happening beneath her. Will’s fingers moved through her fur in a slow, absent rhythm, scratching behind her ears without thought.

Sidra watched them both from the edge of the room.

Will nodded once at something Rucker said, just late enough that the moment had already passed. His hand never stopped moving. Sidra noticed. She always did.

She could have stepped in sooner. She chose not to.

The cat shifted, resettling with a faint sigh, claws flexing once against the chair’s fabric. Will did not notice. Sidra did.
She let it go another minute.

“Okay,” she said gently.

Will blinked, then straightened a fraction. “I’m good.”

Rucker glanced at him. “You’ve been real quiet.”

Will shrugged. “I’m listening.”

Sidra’s mouth curved faintly. “You’re trying.”

She crossed her arms, not defensive, just settled. “You’re running on fumes.”

“I can stay up a little longer.”

“You could,” she agreed. “But you won’t.”

Will glanced toward Rucker, then back to her. “He just got here.”

Rucker leaned back a fraction. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said evenly. “My ship’s based here now. You’ll see me around.”
Sidra nodded once. “Plenty. You don’t need to squeeze it all into tonight.”

Will hesitated, then sighed. The fight left him all at once. He carefully lifted the cat, setting her down with exaggerated care before standing and stretching.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Sidra did not miss the opening. “We’re still on for 0500. Gym.”

Will groaned on instinct, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That’s not humane.”

“Ouch,” Rucker added, amused.

“You’re both terrible.”

“You have to pay to play,” Sidra said, fond but firm. “Goodnight.”

Will did not linger. He clasped Rucker’s forearm once, quick and solid, then headed down the corridor without looking back. No sulking. No dramatics. Just tired acceptance and the quiet confidence that he did not need to rush this moment because it was not the last one.

The cat followed him, tail high, the tip curled just slightly.

His door slid shut.

Sidra waited until the sound settled, then turned toward the small bar tucked along the bulkhead.

She did not ask.

Two tumblers. Two fingers each. The bottle made a familiar sound as she poured, amber catching the low light before she set it back in place. No garnish. No ceremony. Just enough.

She carried the glasses back and handed one to Rucker before taking her seat at the far end of the couch.

Rucker accepted it with a quiet nod, watching her over the rim as he took his first sip. He said nothing. Neither did she.

“He’s grown,” he said finally.

Sidra rolled the glass once between her palms. “Yeah.”

“Not just taller,” Rucker added. “Older. You can see it in how he carries himself.”

She leaned back, glass resting loose in her hand. “He’s right in that space,” she said after a moment. “Still a boy. Trying to become a man.”

Rucker nodded.

“He’s been talking about the Academy,” Sidra continued. “Not constantly. Just enough.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“It shouldn’t,” she said. “Stephen thinks Ops. Or medical.”

Rucker smiled faintly. “Definitely not security.”

“Definitely not,” Sidra echoed. “He’s got better instincts than that.”

Rucker took another sip, gaze drifting toward the corridor. “He reminds me a lot of Stephen,” he said. “Steady. Observant. Thinks before he moves.”

Sidra glanced at him. “And?”

“And he’s got some of your fire,” Rucker said. “He just hasn’t figured out what to do with it yet.”

That landed.

Sidra stared into her glass, then lifted it and took a measured sip.

“I worry,” she said quietly. “About the Academy. About what it asks of them.”

“And you’re proud,” Rucker said.

She did not hesitate. “I am.”

Light from the station exterior spilled through the viewport, steady and unmoving. Sidra raised her glass slightly.
“To not rushing it.”

Rucker mirrored the motion. “To letting him grow.”

The glasses clinked softly.

Rucker shifted his glass, eyes drifting toward the empty chair.

“I thought you didn’t like cats,” he said mildly. “Didn’t Kor have one?”

Sidra’s eyes narrowed a fraction before she could stop herself. The image surfaced uninvited. A large black cat stretched across a bulkhead console, yellow eyes tracking everything with quiet judgment.

“Scratch,” she said flatly. “I didn’t like that thing. Lived up to his name.”

Rucker’s mouth twitched. “Sounds about right.”

She took a slow sip, gaze unfocused now. Kor had acquired the cat during one of the many stretches they lived apart. Long deployments. Overlapping commands. Lives that never quite lined up. The cat had arrived before she left. It had stayed long after she had not.

Rucker did not follow up.

She knew he was still friends with Kor. That had never bothered her. What she did not do was ask how he was.
The silence stretched. Careful, not uncomfortable.

“I know we never talked about this,” Sidra said at last, not quite looking at him. “And I’m not trying to dig anything back up.”
Rucker stayed still. Listening.

“I wish him well,” she went on. “Truly. But there was a point where things clarified.”

She took a sip. “When I came back from that place.”

No explanation. No need.

“He showed up for two days,” she said. “Two. Then went back to his ship.”

Rucker exhaled slowly.

“That told me what I needed to know,” Sidra said, more observation than hurt.

A beat passed.

“Stephen wouldn’t do that,” she added. “And I wouldn’t do it to him.”

Rucker’s gaze stayed on his glass. “Just the moment you realized you were already alone,” he said.

Sidra did not argue.

She leaned back, rolling her shoulders once, as if setting something down. “That water made it out to the ocean a long time ago.”

Rucker shifted his glass again, then looked back to her, a faint smirk surfacing.

“So,” he said lightly. “How’s your husband enjoying Tavrik?”

Sidra huffed once. “Define enjoying.”

“And his protection?” Rucker asked. “Please tell me you didn’t go easy.”

“Twelve,” she said.

Rucker blinked. “Twelve.”

“Full detail,” she continued. “Captain McKinney’s overseeing it. Valley Forge.”

“That’s a statement.”

“It’s a starting position,” Sidra said. “Any number is too much for optics. Might as well begin there.”

“You’re expecting him to pare it down.”

“I am.”

Rucker smiled into his glass. “You know him well.”

Sidra’s gaze drifted down the corridor again, toward the quiet she hoped held.

“We haven’t talked about the security,” she said. “I wanted to give him space.”

“That can’t be easy.”

“It isn’t.” Her voice lowered, meant only for the room. “I didn’t want to influence him.”

She paused, fingers tightening briefly around the glass.

“But I wish,” she added softly, “that he wasn’t the best man for the job.”

Rucker did not answer right away.

After a moment, he said, “That’s love.”

Sidra’s mouth curved faintly. Not quite a smile. “It’s something like it.”

She took one last measured sip and set her glass down. The admission stayed there with it.

Sidra stayed where she was for a moment, one hand resting against the table beside her empty glass. The quiet pressed in, not uncomfortable, just full.

She rubbed at the bridge of her nose with two fingers, the motion small and automatic, like she had done it a hundred times already that day. Her shoulders finally dropped, just a little.

“I didn’t realize how tired I was,” she said. Not a complaint. Just a fact.

Rucker looked at her more closely this time. He did not comment on it.

A maintenance shuttle cruised past the viewport, its running lights sliding once across the walls before fading again.

Sidra leaned back against the couch, eyes closing for a brief second longer than a blink. When she opened them, she did not look down the corridor or back to the bar. She looked at him.

“It’s… good,” she said quietly. “Talking to you. Talking to someone I don’t have to explain myself to.”

Rucker stayed still. Present.

“Someone I can trust,” she added, voice lower now. “Implicitly.”

He inclined his head just slightly. “You always could.”

She nodded once. “I know.”

They let the silence sit where it was. No need to fill it.

Sidra rested her head back against the cushion. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “Tonight.”

Rucker did not answer right away.

He did not need to.

Sidra shifted slightly, rolling her shoulders once as if easing a familiar ache. The quiet held, comfortable now.

“I’m really looking forward to when your family gets here,” she said. “All of them.”

Rucker glanced over. “You haven’t even met the youngest two yet.”

She smiled faintly. “Not in person. I feel like that should count for something.”

“It doesn’t,” he said dryly. “They’re louder in person.”

“That’s usually how it works,” Sidra replied. “I want to meet them properly. See you in that version of your life.”

Rucker studied her for a moment, then nodded. “They’ll like you.”

She snorted softly. “They’ll tolerate me.”

“That too.”

Another maintenance shuttle passed farther out this time, its lights barely grazing the viewport. Sidra watched it go, then looked back to him.

“You know,” she said, “it’s funny.”

“Dangerous phrase,” Rucker murmured.

“We both married people who are nothing like us,” she continued. “At least not where it counts.”

Rucker smiled, slow and knowing. “Grounded. Patient. Capable of talking us down when our first instinct is to break something.”

“Or someone,” Sidra added quietly.

“Especially someone.”

She nodded. “Stephen has this way of anchoring things. Pulling me back before I decide the only answer is force.”
Rucker lifted his glass slightly. “Same.”

They shared a look that held more understanding than explanation ever could.

“Probably saved more lives than we ever did,” Sidra said.

Rucker considered that, then nodded. “Including ours.”

Sidra leaned back, the tension that had followed her all day finally loosening its grip.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “On the station. In our lives.”

Rucker’s expression softened. “So am I.”

The quiet returned, steady and unforced, and this time Sidra did not feel the need to push through it.

Rucker stood first, setting his glass down with care.

“I should let you sleep,” he said. Not an apology. Just a recognition.

Sidra nodded. “Thank you for coming. Really.”

He paused at the doorway, one last look back. “Anytime,” he said. Then he was gone, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft finality.

The apartment settled again.

Sidra moved slowly now, the adrenaline of company finally ebbing. She dimmed the lights further, checked the corridor out of habit, and let herself into her bedroom. The room was cool and quiet, the bed too neat on one side.

She sat for a moment before lying down.

When she finally did, she turned onto her side, facing the empty space beside her. She closed her eyes and pictured Stephen’s hands, warm and familiar, traveling over her shoulders, down her arms, working the tension from muscles that had carried too much for too long. She could almost feel it, the steady presence, the grounding calm.

Almost.

Her hand drifted across the sheets and came to rest where he should have been. She left it there, palm pressed flat, as if touch alone might bridge the distance.

The loneliness came quietly. So did the exhaustion.

Sidra breathed once, slow and deep, and let her eyes close, holding that imagined warmth for just a moment longer before sleep finally claimed what the day had taken.

Vice Admiral Sidra MacLaren
Fleet Commander
Epsilon Fleet

 

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