Authors Note: TWO chapters in one night. Nikki is right, I am spoiling her. In case you missed it, I posted Part Three earlier this evening and it’s down below. You just have to make it past the obstacle that is the Zachary Quinto photo.
Uhura watched as Chekov, on his way from the inside to the outside navigated that very direct path in a very indirect manner. Finally reaching the door, he stared down at the knob as if trying to determine what it was and what he should do with it. It was decided for him when Spock, carrying an empty platter, came in.
“Spiciba, Mischter Schpock,” said Chekov, slurring his words.
“You are very welcome, Mr. Chekov. Do you require further assistance?”
“Da.” Chekov pointed straight ahead to indicate the direction he wished to go.
Spock gave him a little push over the threshold, where he collapsed onto the nearest chaise lounge… by way of the potted plant and only after he had circled a cluster of several people standing at the far end of the deck.
“Correct me if I am wrong, Miss Uhura, but Mr. Chekov is a navigator, is he not?”
While she was busy laughing, he sat the empty platter on the counter.
“I have determined, that of the thirty people we invited, fifty-four where good enough to graciously accept our invitation.”
She laughed even harder; the more the merrier she thought.
“Your grilled eggplant is very popular.”
“Wait until they try my marinated Tellerite Tofu,” she replied, busily skewering the pea green squares onto wooden skewers for grilling.
“Let me do that for you, Miss Uhura. You have been on your feet for three point six hours without a rest interval. And you have not eaten.”
He moved in her direction where she edged him out of her way with her hip. “Not a chance, Buster; this kitchen isn’t big enough for the both of us.”
Spock glanced around. The kitchen was quite adequate in accommodating twice their number quite comfortably.
Seeing him performing the calculations of square footage in his head, she felt that she needed to explain.
“It’s an expression, Mr. Spock. It means that I’m in charge and you have to do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it. Now, fill that platter with the last of the eggplant and get back on grill duty. I’ll bring out the tofu when they’re ready.
“Certainly, Captain,” he replied sarcastically before complying.
Back outside, he listened to the loud techno music while the smoke from the grill blew into his face. He moved his head away from it, just in time to observe Ensigns Miller and Grady apparently searching for each others tonsils… with their tongues. When he turned to look another way it was only to see several of his shipmates, of both sexes, gyrating suggestively to the steady thumping beat. He soon thought it best to focus his attention back to the grill, where he poked at a skewer of cubed Andorian squash to determine when it would be ready to be turned.
“Ah, ah, ah!” warned Uhura, exiting from door with the platter of tofu in her hand, “Not yet; the grill’s not hot enough.”
“Squash can be eaten raw, Miss Uhura; I do so all the time.” He poked at it again earning himself a slap to the back of the hand.
“I assure you, Mr. Spock, that even though Vulcan’s may enjoy eating their squash raw, I can assure you that the vast majority of humans do not.”
Setting aside the tongs, he tried to take the heavily ladened platter away from her only to engage in a gentle tug of war.
“I’ve got this, Mr. Spock. I don’t want to put them on the grill just yet; I don’t want them to burn.”
“The grill is not hot enough for squash, but it is too hot for tofu? Illogical.”
Uhura huffed impatiently. “Why don’t you go mingle and get out from under foot?”
“I prefer to assist you with the cooking; after all, I did agree to host this gathering with you … and at your enthusiastic and vociferous insistence.”
Uhura would have said something smart-alecky to that comment if she had not heard Chekov snickering loudly behind her.
“Ha! You two be sounding like old married couple; just like my Ma and Pa!”
Spock, was sitting outside on the verandah eating his breakfast. He reached out with his long leg and kicked Chekov lightly with his booted foot. The Ensign, partially sprawled out on the ground and partially on the deck with his face planted in the dirt, did not stir.
“Spock, will you stop kicking Chekov. Let him sleep it off–don’t wake him!”
“I assure you I was not endeavoring to wake him; I was merely ascertaining if he was still alive.”
She laughed quietly. “He did drink an awful lot last night. I hope you know that his excess drinking was all your fault.”
“How is everyone’s inebriation my fault?”
“I said beer, Mr. Spock, beer; not Andorian Ale; and whether Vulcan’s care to know it or not, there is a vast difference between the two.”
“It was the only beverage of that kind I was able to procure on such short notice.”
“And what about the Saurian Brandy and the Mexican Tequila?”
“I have often heard humans speak of those particular spirits in glowing terms. I thought is best to provide several alternatives for everyone’s enjoyment.”
“Yes, while all night you calmly sipped on Vulcan tea. Everyone is going to have such horrible hangovers today. They will probably blame me, but I am going to merely point in your direction and set them straight.” He looked at her askance as she wiped her mouth on her linen napkin.
Spoke continued to stare, and just has she began to feel the twinges of awkwardness, he reached out slowly with his thumb and wiped away something from the corner of her mouth.
“Jam,” he said evenly, returning to his toast.
Embarrassed, she grabbed at her napkin again thinking that she had done a poor job.
“Not to worry, I have removed it.”
Momentarily unsettled and not quite knowing why, she pushed her plate away and stood. “Well, I’m off.”
Spock stood up from the breakfast table like a shot.
“Off? Where are you going?”
“To relax down by the shore. Whhhy?” she asked, drawing out the word for emphasis.
“I thought that… would you be amenable to me accompanying you on your outing?”
“And why on Earth, or in this case, Starbase sixteen, would you want to do that? I’m only going to be lying about in a lounge chair all day soaking up the sun while sipping from several very large glasses of how ever many Mai Tai’s the Cabana boy can bring me from the hotel bar.”
“That sounds agreeable; the part without consuming the alcohol, I should say.”
“Uh… well, ok. Let me run back to my room to grab my things.”
He turned to look down at the ground.
“What are we going to do about Mr. Chekov?”
“What do you mean by “we”? Chekov is a big boy, Mr. Spock, and no matter what he chooses to believe while in a drunken stupor, we are not his mother and father.”
Authors footnote: I guess these are what the people at fan fiction.net call “drabbles”. For some reason I hate that word. These postings may seem like random “babblings” but a assure you that there is a beginning, a middle, and an end.
I know I said that there would only be two or three parts to this story, but it’s now looking like six. It keeps writing itself. Hmph! Do you all remember the last time I said that? Stupid SPAT and it 21 chapters!