Something Like Home
Posted on Thu Aug 28th, 2025 @ 3:02am by Chloe de la Vega
943 words; about a 5 minute read
Mission:
Year One: Strange Bedfellows
Location: Mess Hall, Deck 2
Timeline: MD010 - 0615 hours
The mess hall was quiet before breakfast.
Chloe set two pots going—stock on a gentle simmer, rice on a proper boil. Saffron went in and turned everything a soft gold. Tables were wiped, chairs straight, lights a touch warmer than standard. It looked like somewhere people were meant to be.
“Morning, Chloe,” an Ops rating said, propping himself on the counter like the deck had doubled in gravity.
“Morning, cariño (love),” she said, pouring coffee and a little milk. “You look like you lost a fight with the mid-watch.”
“Didn’t lose,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Called it a draw. The Syndicate frigate keeps drifting. Our sensors keep writing poetry about it.”
Chloe passed over the mug and a plate: pan con tomate—tomato rubbed on toast, garlic, olive oil, pinch of salt. “Eat first. Then complain. That’s the order of service.”
He took a bite, blinked. “How do you make this taste like shore leave?”
“Time and a bit of care,” she said. “And not letting the replicator pretend it’s better than it is.”
The doors sighed open. Night shift filtered in, then early birds, then the ones who treated breakfast like a contract with themselves. Chloe moved the way kitchens taught you to move—hands busy, eyes everywhere. A hello here, a warm touch to an anxious shoulder there. If voices lifted, she didn’t; a look from her was enough to keep things civil.
A young Marine loitered at the line, trying to decide between swagger and sleep.
“Morning, Chloe. Heard a rumour about real eggs.”
“Rumour also says you owe me a plate from last week,” she said, folding soft curds in a pan and finishing with chives. She added roasted peppers and nudged the dish across. “Return that and I’ll deny everything.”
“Scout’s honour,” he grinned, already less tight around the eyes.
Two scientists came in mid-argument over field tolerances. A nurse from Sickbay hugged the wall like she didn’t want to take up space. Chloe set a bowl in front of the nurse without asking—light broth with fennel and lemon, heat you could hold in both hands.
“You look like you slept in a chair,” Chloe said, gentler now. “Eat this. It helps.”
The nurse exhaled like she’d been holding it all night. “Thanks.”
“For you two,” Chloe told the scientists, sliding over a warm tortilla to share, “you can argue, but not loudly. House rules.”
“Chloe.” Lieutenant Commander Davaris’ voice carried just enough to be heard. Security posture, controlled eyes; something coiled behind them today.
Chloe plated for her straight away: saffron rice with stock, charred peppers, grilled mushrooms with something green and sharp over the top, a soft egg to finish. “Sit. Eat first. Then tell me what’s heavy.”
Davaris’ mouth tipped. “You always assume it’s heavy.”
“You don’t visit for gossip,” Chloe said. “Food first.”
Davaris gave the smallest laugh and took a table with clear sightlines. She ate like someone remembering how.
The room found its rhythm. Someone put on a quiet playlist. Mugs were topped up. An Engineer and a Navigator argued power draw and left smiling. A science crewman reached the bottom of a bowl and his shoulders at the same time. People checked on each other without making a show of it. That was the point.
The Orion liaison arrived late: neat suit, neat smile. Conversations in the room twitched.
“Good morning,” Chloe said, still slicing bread. “If you’re eating here, you’re crew. If you’re crew, you bus your tray.”
A beat. He adjusted his cuffs. “Of course.”
“Brilliant. Valencia set today. Or there’s the replicator if you’re feeling brave.” The corner of her mouth said she was teasing. He took the set. The room relaxed.
Between rushes, a new Ensign hovered with a tray and nerves. She fiddled with her combadge like it might bolt.
“First week away from home?” Chloe asked, spooning rice into a bowl and adding a bright spoon of sofrito.
“Is it that obvious?”
“A little.” Chloe leaned in, voice low enough to stay private. “Homesick isn’t weakness. It’s proof you’ve got roots. Eat this. It’ll put you on your feet for the morning.”
The Ensign’s eyes shined. “Thanks.”
“If anyone gives you grief, tell them Chloe said they can help with the washing-up.”
By mid-morning the rush eased. Ops-yellow reappeared with an empty mug and a better face. He nodded at Davaris’ clean bowl.
“You feed the whole ship like this every day?”
“Not the whole ship,” Chloe said, stacking plates. “Just the parts that remember they’re people.” She glanced at the doors as they opened again. “Next wave.”
He lingered. “Do you ever miss… before?”
Chloe wiped a ring of water from the counter. “I miss the smell after it rains in Valencia. I miss my mum dancing badly in the kitchen.” She let him see the warmth, not the bruise. “But this is home now. Vale (okay)?”
“Vale,” he said, trying the word out. It fit him.
The doors parted; new stories walked in—oily hands, crisp collars, tired jokes. Chloe caught her reflection in the sneeze guard: hair up, sleeves rolled, the old scar soft under kind light. A year ago she’d stepped aboard with one bag, a battered recipe book, and a spine full of no. Now people came here because they trusted she’d make their morning better—sometimes with a proper meal, sometimes with a nudge and a smile.
That counted.
She lifted the lid, checked the rice, and got back to work.
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