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Today I am posting WIPs that aren't WIPs because that would imply progress is being made. And it isn't.

Title: Dungeno
Series: unfinished
Rating: PG?
Word Count: 945
Summary: Gay Jewish angst on a starship.
Notes: I've started but never finished a couple of things set in the Star Trek universe, concerning the Starship Dungeno (a name which came about because I sometimes misspell things and thought it looked cool), populated by characters I write about in other places. It is unlikely that this, or anything in this continuity, will ever be finished but I'm throwing it out there anyway. I would also like to take this opportunity to point out I do sometimes write about gentiles having gay angst.

The rhythmic drumming of Lieutenant Anita Rabinoveitch's heels against the white counter she'd sat herself on would have annoyed Dr. Meschesh Herskowitz, under ordinary circumstances. Probably not hanging-out-after-shift ordinary, but most definitely pilot-is-hanging-around-medbay-during-shift ordinary. It was unprofessional, for one, and for another – and this was what really bothered him and she knew it – it made Rabinoveitch seem so incredibly young which, in turn, reminded Herskowitz of exactly how young he was. And that set off all sorts of unpleasant worry and self-doubt and it was easier to get pissed off and kick Rabinoveitch out than it was to go through that hurricane of angst every time she decided bugging him while he was in the middle of a shift was a constructive use of her downtime.

But that was under ordinary circumstances and today wasn't ordinary. It took Rabinoveitch all of .7 seconds to figure that one out.

“What's wrong with you?” she asked, and threw the little foam ball they'd been tossing a little harder than was really necessary, directly at Herskowitz's head. Herskowitz caught it.

“Nothing,” he said. “Should there be something?”

“I don't know,” said Rabinoveitch. “I just know that something is. Out with it.”

“How do you figure?” Herskowitz tossed the ball back.

Rabinoveitch rolled her eyes and shook her thick, brown hair back. Between the length and the bangs she always put off getting trimmed, it wasn't the most practical of styles for a Starfleet officer, but Herskowitz's mess of black-brown curls was sufficient to make him feel like a hypocrite if he even considered mentioning it. They both looked like kids, really. They were kids.

“It's been over an hour,” she said. “And you haven't kicked me out. For approximately half of that time, I've been talking about Lieutenant Commander Israel. And you haven't kicked me out. And you haven't started bitching about how you're not my relationship counselor. And you haven't suggested that rearranging myself into a new kind of supernova might get her attention. What's going on, Moshi?”

The precise arc of a brow, barely visible behind her wall of hair, told Herskowitz what he already pretty much knew. Rabinoveitch was already well aware of what his problem was, had probably been aware of it since before she ever set foot in sickbay, and the last hour had been an attempt to either take his mind of it or annoy him into spilling just to get her to shut up. They both knew that he would give in soon, but maybe not quite yet.

“You can't call me that,” he said, and grinned, just a little. “I'm on duty, Lieutenant Rabinoveitch.”

Rabinoveitch, who Herskowitz at all other times called Ani, didn't argue. She said, “Sure. Whatever. Doctor Herskowitz. What's eating you?”

He was slightly disappointed by this response. A fight was generally the best way to derail her. But her own shift did start in less than two hours, so she was probably doing her best to focus. That or she had actually met him before, and Dr. Herskowitz did not flatter himself in thinking he was any more subtle than he actually was. Redirection foiled, he went for his next best defense: denial.

“Nothing,” he said. It did not sound any more convincing the second time around.

“Would this be the same nothing that prompted you to tell your subordinates you were with a very important and delicate patient, then lock us in a quarantine lab with orders not to be disturbed for anything less than total war with a comparably-sized empire when I just dropped in to say hi?”

Herskowitz, once again the victim of his own subtlety, sighed.

“Yeah,” he said. “That's the nothing.”

“Would the nothing happen to be known in polite society as Ambassador Spencer?” Rabinoveitch asked. His cringe was all the response she needed. “You can't just avoid him forever, Moshi,” she said. “Hell, you can't even avoid him for as long as he's on the ship. I sure as hell won't be staying locked in here for two weeks.”

Herskowitz gave her a weak smile.

“How about until 0700?” he asked. “That's when his appointment should end.”

Rabinoveitch snorted. “You're Chief Medical Officer,” she said. “You have to treat official guests personally. It's on your contract.”

“I don't have a contract. I have a commission.”

“It's in your job description.”

“Someone else can do it. So long as I'm already in with a patient.”

“By Moses, Moshi, nobody in their right mind will believe you're actually treating me for two and half hours, especially not in a quarantine lab. I haven't been off the ship in weeks and, shocking as it may seem, people have noticed this whole 'best friends' thing we've got going on. This might just be the worst ruse ever.”

“It only has to be viable until 0700,” he said. “After that, someone else will have looked him over, the Captain will discipline me by making snippy comments about what my intentions are toward her pilot, and I can put into practice those avoidance skills you've been so critical of.”

“Meschesh Herskowitz. You have face down angry, ax-wielding renegade Klingons with nothing but an antique scalpel and a hypospray. No one would believe you're such a coward.”

“Good.” Taking this as assent to the plan, Herskowitz made himself comfortable on the biobed. “It can be our little secret.”

He was not entirely surprised when the mostly-forgotten foam ball hit him in the face.


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