Fic: "Hang Your Flowers Up to Dry"
Title: Hang Your Flowers Up to Dry
Summary: Pike, One, and the last dinner they have together before One leaves on the Yorktown.
Pairing: Pike/One
Rating: PG-13
Content Advisory: Swearing.
Word Count: 1500
Notes: A few months ago, there was a challenge from het_idcrack. I wrote Claimed for it, but there were a boatload of prompts left un-claimed (heh), so I saved a few of my favorites in a .txt document. This was the prompt (image--SFW), with a parenthetical of "She is past the point of giving a fuck who knows about their affair."
I'm not posting it to the comm because it isn't in the least id-crack, but that's where it came from.
Title from here. (I really wanted to call it "Flowers in a Lightning Storm," but that's an entirely different story.)
Tomorrow morning, in some variation of an antiquated Terran ceremony, Number One will relieve Christopher Pike as captain of the Yorktown and return to the ship for another five-year expedition. Chris will stay on Earth and in the vicinity, recruiting and teaching at the Academy until the Enterprise is ready for him. They will see each other perhaps two or three times a year; more, if he pulls strings. They aren't breaking up, but it feels like it, in a way.
That is tomorrow. Tonight is theirs.
* * *
Cait apparently had slipped a black dress and the matching heels into One's bag, so she doesn't have to go buy a fancy dress for dinner out. She shakes the dress out to find that the back is beaded somehow, and it hits almost at her ankles. The shoes have pointy toes in a style that's gone in and out of fashion over the years and may currently be fashionable; One doesn't know or care, because frankly, they look hot on their own, let alone on her feet and below the dress.
She leaves her hair loose, because it feels good swishing against her neck. She adds diamond ear-studs, because Chris gave them to her to celebrate some anniversary. She even puts on makeup, although not much, and changes her nail polish to silver, because (although she is loath to admit it) she likes the sparkle. Last, but not least, she stares in the mirror, and slips off her panties, since she won't need them. Hopefully.
Chris is waiting outside the room; she could hear him pacing, but he stops as soon as the door opens. He is wearing a charcoal-gray suit, very traditional Terran styling, with a deep blue shirt and a tie striped in two other shades of blue. One looks at his feet, and he's wearing black-and-white spectator wingtips. Of all the shoes she could have imagined--Starfleet regulation boots, standard black men's dress shoes, Andorian snow gear--those were not what she'd imagined. How on earth had he owned those and she didn't know about them?
"They're Phil's," he says, digging one toe into the ground in a surprisingly diffident way, and she realizes he is nervous. It is unexpected; they have known each other for years and have been lovers--more than friends--together--whatever for over four years. "I forgot mine."
"You look amazing," she says, trying to set him at ease, and also because he does. Blue suits him much better than the gold he wears every day, and she briefly entertains a thought of him as a science officer. "I like the shoes."
"Thank you," he says, smiling. "So do you." His fingers brush her earlobe gently, and she smiles as well. He holds out an arm and says, "Shall we?"
She takes it; they have reservations at a restaurant quite a bit south, near the beach, where there are fewer members of Starfleet ready to interrupt.
It is still daylight when they arrive; June 21 is just a couple weeks away and the days are long. They are seated immediately, thanks to the reservations; right outside the floor-to-ceiling window there is a large palm tree. The waiter comes, and Chris, who knows more about wine than she does, orders a bottle of red wine for them to share.
Dinner is--pleasant. The food is amazing. One has trout, caught fresh from a cold river somewhere north, served with Andorian-curried vegetables and a delicate herbed sauce. Chris, of course, orders filet mignon, so rare that One wonders, out loud, if they cooked it at all.
"I've had raw beef," he says, with a chuckle. "This is much tastier."
She shudders, just a bit, and his smile widens. She's eaten hundreds of meals with him, if not thousands, and each can predict with about ninety-five percent accuracy what item the other will pick on any given menu, and he still finds her dislike of rare meat amusing.
He asks her questions about the crew, about the various new members who will be joining those members of his former crew who will be staying. "I'm glad Phil's staying with you," he says. "I'm sorry I took Spock."
"I understand," she says. "I'm glad Phil's staying as well." Although she's looking forward to breaking in a new first officer and a new science officer, keeping two of her top four officers appeals to her. "That is," she amends, "if Starfleet Medical doesn't just promote him to Surgeon General without his knowledge."
Chris laughs again. "They're pretty adamant, but he can definitely out-stubborn them."
Lemon-berry cheesecake is on the dessert menu, but neither orders it out of respect for Yeoman Colt; stories of her cheesecake have made it on to various other ships. Chris suggests something that appears to be mostly chocolate ganache; she counters with the raspberry-white-chocolate creme brulee. They compromise with a dark molten chocolate cake with strawberries.
While they are sharing the dessert, spoons alternating in a careful choreography, a couple of Starfleet officers, vaguely familiar, walk in and sit down at the bar. They have their backs to Chris and One, but Chris stiffens, almost imperceptibly. Their relationship has never been quite a secret, but it is a reflex; if it were too widely known, it would be a liability. One doesn't think he needs to worry, but she can't tell him that. Fortunately, their table is far enough away and the acoustics of the restaurant are such that anyone at the bar won't be able to eavesdrop.
After they finish, Chris sits back in his chair, his hands on the arms. She has known what that particular position has meant for almost as long as she has known him; now, he will get to the important part. The first thing out of his mouth is, "I love you," which is important, definitely.
"I love you, too," she answers, partly reflex but no less sincere for it.
"I'd very much like to make this work."
If she were a different person, she would take offense at his words, find some implication in them that she does not want to make this work. "We will," she says instead.
The truth is that it would only have taken one form--one more form, that is; she's already his next-of-kin and medical proxy, and vice versa--and Starfleet wouldn't be able to do this, wouldn't be able to promote her and offer him the Enterprise. This won't affect work, he promised years ago, and she has held him to it, even when it means that they will never again serve on the same ship. It's possible, if they survive that long, they'll be able to retire together, probably to his ranch in the desert, but that is years from now.
"We will," she repeats.
He has a look on his face that she does not like, the look that says I'm not sure I believe you but I wish I did. There are many ways to wipe that look off his face--she could change the subject, remind him of things he likes about his new position, remind him of an amusing anecdote--but she hesitates.
"One, I--" He sighs.
She listens to the sigh, hears all the unsaid words, and stands, probably abruptly from his point of view. He looks up at her, frowning, and she leans as far as she can over the table, placing her hands mere inches from his wine glass. She carefully sets the toe of one shoe on the seat of her chair and pushes herself up onto the table, on her hands and knees. This is not the time to give a fuck about who is watching, and considering that tomorrow marks the last day that she will see him for a minimum of six months, she is past the point of giving a fuck who knows about their relationship.
She crawls across the table, watching the surprise on his face grow, and leans down to kiss him, mouths opening before they're completely sealed. His hands come up to clutch at her forearms, and she presses into him, stroking her tongue against his.
They kiss, oblivious to anything else, until the kiss is done, a good five minutes later, and she crawls back slowly, resettling herself in her chair, and sipping at the dregs of wine in her glass. "We will make it work," she says.
"Yes," Chris says, eyes hot and dark. "Do you want to leave?"
"Yes," she says.
He throws a handful of credits down on the table--large denominations, more than enough to cover the bill--and stands, holding out a hand. She takes it, and they leave, hand in hand.
No one watches. Or perhaps everyone watches. One doesn't care.
Summary: Pike, One, and the last dinner they have together before One leaves on the Yorktown.
Pairing: Pike/One
Rating: PG-13
Content Advisory: Swearing.
Word Count: 1500
Notes: A few months ago, there was a challenge from het_idcrack. I wrote Claimed for it, but there were a boatload of prompts left un-claimed (heh), so I saved a few of my favorites in a .txt document. This was the prompt (image--SFW), with a parenthetical of "She is past the point of giving a fuck who knows about their affair."
I'm not posting it to the comm because it isn't in the least id-crack, but that's where it came from.
Title from here. (I really wanted to call it "Flowers in a Lightning Storm," but that's an entirely different story.)
Tomorrow morning, in some variation of an antiquated Terran ceremony, Number One will relieve Christopher Pike as captain of the Yorktown and return to the ship for another five-year expedition. Chris will stay on Earth and in the vicinity, recruiting and teaching at the Academy until the Enterprise is ready for him. They will see each other perhaps two or three times a year; more, if he pulls strings. They aren't breaking up, but it feels like it, in a way.
That is tomorrow. Tonight is theirs.
* * *
Cait apparently had slipped a black dress and the matching heels into One's bag, so she doesn't have to go buy a fancy dress for dinner out. She shakes the dress out to find that the back is beaded somehow, and it hits almost at her ankles. The shoes have pointy toes in a style that's gone in and out of fashion over the years and may currently be fashionable; One doesn't know or care, because frankly, they look hot on their own, let alone on her feet and below the dress.
She leaves her hair loose, because it feels good swishing against her neck. She adds diamond ear-studs, because Chris gave them to her to celebrate some anniversary. She even puts on makeup, although not much, and changes her nail polish to silver, because (although she is loath to admit it) she likes the sparkle. Last, but not least, she stares in the mirror, and slips off her panties, since she won't need them. Hopefully.
Chris is waiting outside the room; she could hear him pacing, but he stops as soon as the door opens. He is wearing a charcoal-gray suit, very traditional Terran styling, with a deep blue shirt and a tie striped in two other shades of blue. One looks at his feet, and he's wearing black-and-white spectator wingtips. Of all the shoes she could have imagined--Starfleet regulation boots, standard black men's dress shoes, Andorian snow gear--those were not what she'd imagined. How on earth had he owned those and she didn't know about them?
"They're Phil's," he says, digging one toe into the ground in a surprisingly diffident way, and she realizes he is nervous. It is unexpected; they have known each other for years and have been lovers--more than friends--together--whatever for over four years. "I forgot mine."
"You look amazing," she says, trying to set him at ease, and also because he does. Blue suits him much better than the gold he wears every day, and she briefly entertains a thought of him as a science officer. "I like the shoes."
"Thank you," he says, smiling. "So do you." His fingers brush her earlobe gently, and she smiles as well. He holds out an arm and says, "Shall we?"
She takes it; they have reservations at a restaurant quite a bit south, near the beach, where there are fewer members of Starfleet ready to interrupt.
It is still daylight when they arrive; June 21 is just a couple weeks away and the days are long. They are seated immediately, thanks to the reservations; right outside the floor-to-ceiling window there is a large palm tree. The waiter comes, and Chris, who knows more about wine than she does, orders a bottle of red wine for them to share.
Dinner is--pleasant. The food is amazing. One has trout, caught fresh from a cold river somewhere north, served with Andorian-curried vegetables and a delicate herbed sauce. Chris, of course, orders filet mignon, so rare that One wonders, out loud, if they cooked it at all.
"I've had raw beef," he says, with a chuckle. "This is much tastier."
She shudders, just a bit, and his smile widens. She's eaten hundreds of meals with him, if not thousands, and each can predict with about ninety-five percent accuracy what item the other will pick on any given menu, and he still finds her dislike of rare meat amusing.
He asks her questions about the crew, about the various new members who will be joining those members of his former crew who will be staying. "I'm glad Phil's staying with you," he says. "I'm sorry I took Spock."
"I understand," she says. "I'm glad Phil's staying as well." Although she's looking forward to breaking in a new first officer and a new science officer, keeping two of her top four officers appeals to her. "That is," she amends, "if Starfleet Medical doesn't just promote him to Surgeon General without his knowledge."
Chris laughs again. "They're pretty adamant, but he can definitely out-stubborn them."
Lemon-berry cheesecake is on the dessert menu, but neither orders it out of respect for Yeoman Colt; stories of her cheesecake have made it on to various other ships. Chris suggests something that appears to be mostly chocolate ganache; she counters with the raspberry-white-chocolate creme brulee. They compromise with a dark molten chocolate cake with strawberries.
While they are sharing the dessert, spoons alternating in a careful choreography, a couple of Starfleet officers, vaguely familiar, walk in and sit down at the bar. They have their backs to Chris and One, but Chris stiffens, almost imperceptibly. Their relationship has never been quite a secret, but it is a reflex; if it were too widely known, it would be a liability. One doesn't think he needs to worry, but she can't tell him that. Fortunately, their table is far enough away and the acoustics of the restaurant are such that anyone at the bar won't be able to eavesdrop.
After they finish, Chris sits back in his chair, his hands on the arms. She has known what that particular position has meant for almost as long as she has known him; now, he will get to the important part. The first thing out of his mouth is, "I love you," which is important, definitely.
"I love you, too," she answers, partly reflex but no less sincere for it.
"I'd very much like to make this work."
If she were a different person, she would take offense at his words, find some implication in them that she does not want to make this work. "We will," she says instead.
The truth is that it would only have taken one form--one more form, that is; she's already his next-of-kin and medical proxy, and vice versa--and Starfleet wouldn't be able to do this, wouldn't be able to promote her and offer him the Enterprise. This won't affect work, he promised years ago, and she has held him to it, even when it means that they will never again serve on the same ship. It's possible, if they survive that long, they'll be able to retire together, probably to his ranch in the desert, but that is years from now.
"We will," she repeats.
He has a look on his face that she does not like, the look that says I'm not sure I believe you but I wish I did. There are many ways to wipe that look off his face--she could change the subject, remind him of things he likes about his new position, remind him of an amusing anecdote--but she hesitates.
"One, I--" He sighs.
She listens to the sigh, hears all the unsaid words, and stands, probably abruptly from his point of view. He looks up at her, frowning, and she leans as far as she can over the table, placing her hands mere inches from his wine glass. She carefully sets the toe of one shoe on the seat of her chair and pushes herself up onto the table, on her hands and knees. This is not the time to give a fuck about who is watching, and considering that tomorrow marks the last day that she will see him for a minimum of six months, she is past the point of giving a fuck who knows about their relationship.
She crawls across the table, watching the surprise on his face grow, and leans down to kiss him, mouths opening before they're completely sealed. His hands come up to clutch at her forearms, and she presses into him, stroking her tongue against his.
They kiss, oblivious to anything else, until the kiss is done, a good five minutes later, and she crawls back slowly, resettling herself in her chair, and sipping at the dregs of wine in her glass. "We will make it work," she says.
"Yes," Chris says, eyes hot and dark. "Do you want to leave?"
"Yes," she says.
He throws a handful of credits down on the table--large denominations, more than enough to cover the bill--and stands, holding out a hand. She takes it, and they leave, hand in hand.
No one watches. Or perhaps everyone watches. One doesn't care.