Work Text:
A visitor stands in the foyer, a short way away from the desk.
Laughter resounds from behind the doorway, and Stork raises an eyebrow. A lock of hair disappears around the corner, and Amelia giggles.
Resolutely, Stork returns his attention to his PADD. He has never paid much heed to the other Vulcanoids who visit the agency, and he’s not going to start today.
He has far too much datawork to attend to- this month has seen an unusually-high influx of caregiver applications, and he has only made his way though 50% of them. He balances the PADD on his right hand as he reads, tapping the screen with his left.
‘Suggested action: reject application.’
As usual, the volume of requests has resulted in a greater number of unsuitable candidates.
“Crane,” he reads aloud, under his breath.
“Yes?” The man says.
Stork looks up.
The man’s face is pleasingly symmetrical. He has a dark afro trimmed into a square shape, matching the cropped style which is currently in fashion. Of course, Vulcans never describe such trends as “in-fashion”, but merely “adjusting to the aesthetic which is expected of Vulcans and professionals both on and off-world,” which is therefore- obviously- logical. Not-so-logically, Stork becomes extremely aware of his own hair. He has allowed it to grow a little longer recently, so the end is now past the nape of his neck. Unbidden, his hand drifts to it.
He sees Crane smiling at him from he corner of his eye, and looks at him sharply. Crane stops smiling, and straightens up a little.
According to the man’s PADD, he has recently settled on Earth from Vulcan. He has plenty of accolades and achievements, but there is little else stated, which is atypical even for Vulcans.
Crane lifts his head slightly. “It is fortuitous that you were appraising my application when I arrived.”
Fortuitous. The application is so sparse that it was statistically unlikely that Crane would arrive in the short window of time it took for Stork to read and reject it, but he refrains from commenting on the this ‘coincidence’. His finger hovers over the reject application button, but something makes him hesitate.
He appraises the applicant for a moment. The man holds himself somewhat stiffly, uncomfortably, and Stork rises from his seat.“I no longer discuss the concerns of prospective parents within the foyer.”
It gives the children a sense of expectation, and he does not wish for a repeat of the conversation he had had with the Vulcan ambassador two months ago. He opens the door to the back-office. “We should talk in private.”
Crane’s face twitches. “That is my preference, also.”
Stork inclines his head, and leads him inside. Crane takes a seat on the straight-backed armchair, comfortable yet ergonomic, and Stork hesitates before taking the seat opposite him; the plush Ottoman which is so often favoured by prospective human parents. There are other chairs available: a bean-bag which has defeated many serious-looking Admirals, a sturdy black chair cast from reinforced metal, and a green chair which matches Stork’s own, reminiscent of those in the break room at the Learning Center.
Stork crosses his arms as Crane gets settled.
“You should be aware, you share your name with a species of avian from Earth. Many children find amusement in such things.” Many adults do, too, he thinks, as he glances at the feather-soft robe on the coatstand, recently gifted to him by Sch’n T’gai Amanda Grayson as either a peace offering or a joke.
Crane blinks at him. “I see. Is this likely to impact my application?”
Stork exhales through his nose. “Were you trying to pass as Vulcan, this would be an opportune moment to pass comment on the logic of such observations.”
Crane surveys him for a moment. “You have made no such statements.”
Stork laces his fingers together. “As a resident, I cannot comment on every idiosyncrasy. I would run out of time.”
Crane barks out a laugh. “And yet, you are questioning my…?”
“Authenticity,” Stork says. “Your body holds an unusual amount of tension. It is not easy to practise emotional control when you were raised in a culture without it.”
Crane tilts his head. “I was raised on Vulcan.”
“A fact which you neglected to mention in your personal statement.”
Crane’s eyes flash for an instant, then calm. “Forgive me. I did not know it was required.” His left hand twitches. “I assumed it was… Redundant information.”
“Then you should know that Federation representatives are able to requisition extra information which may not be available to the average citizen.”
Crane watches him blankly.
“Such as the fact that The Tal Shiar have a warrant out for your arrest.”
Crane pales.
“You did not think our background checks would discover this-?”
“No- I was not aware of this myself.” Crane watches the floor for a moment.
“Hm.” Stork checks his PADD. “Clearly, you have managed to persuade other Vulcans that your story is true, for I was able to verify a number of qualifications from your references- though not all of them.”
He looks away. “It is easier to allow people to assume I am Vulcan than explain the intricacies and dangers of defecting from the Romulan Empire to every stranger that I meet.”
“You defected?”
“You are surprised that the Tal Shiar would lie about one of their generals?” He glares at him.
Stork fights to keep his face blank. “You, yourself, have lied.”
“Yes,” Crane admits. “But my status is known only to a few Starfleet officials. They advised me that it would be better to present myself as a Vulcan, because you would not understand my situation if it were known to you.
“The truth is always preferable to a lie, especially in this line of work. Besides, the inherent dangers of being a Romulan defector are no more dangerous than that of an ambassador or a Starfleet officer- both of which were recently approved despite my reservations.”
“So, you’re telling me that there’s a chance?” Crane smiles, and Stork almost returns it.
“There is always a chance, Mr Crane.”
Crane seems to be suppressing a smile as Stork leans forwards to show the PADD to him.
“While you are here, we can eliminate the gaps in your application,” he says, slowly.
Crane inclines his head, and Stork scrolls to the relevant section.
“Why are you interested in fostering?”
“I have heard that there are a number of displaced Romulan children who lack a permanent home.”
“So, fostering or adopting a fellow Romulan is important to you?”
“Not exclusively,” Crane decides. “But it was a factor in my initial decision to apply.”
Stork nods. “Following a period of training, would you be willing and able to care for a child of a different species to yourself?”
“Yes.”
The interview continues in this manner, until the application and personal statement is fully completed.
“Thank you,” Crane says, as he gets to his feet. “I have heard that your opinion holds much weight in the final decision.”
“It is not an opinion. It is a carefully-evaluated decision based on every available fact.”
“Y-yes,” Crane says, hesitantly. “Your decision, then. However, you must be aware that other appraisers read it before deciding their own votes.”
Stork scrutinises him. “Please be mindful, it is still likely that your application will be denied at this time. However, this is standard process. The average applicant will appeal up to four times before being accepted as a suitable foster parent.”
For the first time, Crane seems to visibly relax. “Then I look forward to seeing you again.”
“Yes,” Stork says, uncertainly, as Crane shows himself out. A screen set into the wall shows camera-footage from the interior of the foyer. Crane turns to the camera and gives a respectful nod before leaving.
A strange warmth blooms in Stork’s chest. Then, he rises to his feet.
“Computer, please log applicant interview for stardate 3105.2263.”
The PADD chimes, and he makes his way back to the front desk. Something moves in the corner of his vision, and he shakes his head wryly.
“Go to bed, Amelia,” he calls.
In answer, there is only laughter and the sound of retreating footsteps.