Fic: "Open Invitation"
Title: Open Invitation
Summary: Pike and T'Pris play chess in a bar.
Pairing: Pike/T'Pris; background, ongoing Pike/One
Rating: PG-13
Content Advisory: Nothing in particular.
Word Count: 1400
Notes: T'Pris is not an OC; she's from Vulcan's Glory, like Cait Barry, although . . . well, check her out in Memory Beta if you want to know. I've rebooted her such that she went to the VSA instead of SFA and she entered the diplomatic corps after the destruction of Vulcan (where her first husband died; in the Prime Universe, he died in Starfleet service). And also, this fills the "open relationships and other poly permutations" square on my PikeOne bingo card. I'm sorry there's no porn. Maybe next week will be Porn Week.
Oh, and Humming Ale is an Anchor Brewing Company seasonal beer. Brown Pelicans (the drink) apparently exist, although I have never tried one.
The Officer's Bar was not to be mistaken for the officers' bar that was actually at Starfleet HQ; this one was frequented by Starfleet officers, as were most bars within a twenty-klick radius of the combined Starfleet campuses, but it was not necessarily officers-only. Admiral Christopher Pike liked it because it was rarely overfull, the bartenders were heavy-handed, and it carried a nice selection of microbrews.
It was for the last reason that he'd chosen it as a meeting place for himself and Number One after she got out of meetings that day. The Yorktown was on earth for a good six weeks and since they'd gotten over the initial need to have their hands all over each other, he felt they might as well be seen in public. Chris got there early, staked out a place at the bar, and ordered a pint of Humming Ale to start out his night.
A few sips into it, someone came up to the bar to his left-a young Vulcan woman, perhaps thirty-five or forty Standard years. Her black hair was braided and twisted into a knot at the back of her neck; she wore diplomatic robes in a grayish-brown that oddly flattered her coloring. She ordered something called a Brown Pelican in even tones, and the bartender nodded and turned to pick up a glass.
"A Brown Pelican?" he asked, unable to stifle his curiosity-and not just about the drink.
She turned her head just enough to see him and coolly assess him; he kept a neutrally-pleasant look on his face. Apparently she found him acceptable enough to answer. "Cider and ginger beer," she said.
Ah. In other words, non-alcoholic; unsurprising, as he'd yet to meet a Vulcan who indulged, despite the fact that alcohol didn't actually affect them. "Interesting," he said, with a half-smile.
She gave a short nod, not actually dismissive if he was any judge of Vulcan body language-and, after a Vulcan science officer and mentee, he thought he wasn't too bad at it-and accepted the glass from the bartender with a quiet, "Thank you."
She didn't leave the bar, though, and appeared to be uncertain, if a Vulcan ever was uncertain.
"Are you meeting someone here?" Chris asked.
She nodded. "I have arrived twenty-six point four minutes early."
"I am meeting someone in approximately a half hour as well," he said, falling into the more formal mode of speech he almost always did around Vulcans. "You are more than welcome to join me for the duration."
She blinked once, and slid onto the barstool next to his gracefully.
He watched her sit, took in the high cheekbones and smooth skin, as well as her precise movements and inexplicable hesitation. Something heated in his midsection, and he recognized it as desire. Futile, misplaced desire, of course; there was no possible way that a Vulcan woman of her age and beauty was unbonded. "I'm Chris," he offered, keeping his hands on the bar and his mind on his beer.
"T'Sai T'Pris Aduna Sepel kiran," she replied. "T'Pris."
Well. He spoke enough Vulcan to be able to translate that: against all odds, she was widowed, and effectively single. He tamped his libido back down-not the right time nor place-and, rather than asking her what she did or commenting on the weather or anything else that insipid, asked, "Do you play chess?"
He'd yet to meet a Vulcan trained at the VSA who didn't, so her nod was unsurprising. In response, he pulled out his padd from the pocket of his jacket and loaded up the tiny chess game on the screen. He handed her a spare stylus and asked, "White or black?"
"White, please," she said, and her face softened slightly around the edges.
They were reasonably well-matched; Chris had honed his skills while stuck flat on his back after the Narada incident, playing against everyone from Jim Kirk (surprisingly good, if a little erratic and suicidal in his approach) to Ambassador Sarek (able to calculate about fifteen moves in advance and devastating). T'Pris was, of course, VSA-trained, and had probably played against Ambassador Sarek as well, if she was stationed at the Vulcan Embassy nearby.
Chris was only one piece down when he heard, behind him, "Playing chess in a bar? Really, Chris."
He turned around with a smile. "Hey, One." While turning back to introduce T'Pris to One, he heard a faint click on the table and frowned, mid-turn.
T'Pris was scrambling to pick up her stylus where it had rolled next to Chris's half-full pint glass; her movements were jerky and uncoordinated. "Captain One," she said, after she retrieved it.
"Counselor T'Pris," One said. "I'm glad you could make it."
Chris and T'Pris both turned to her, and she smiled. "Yes, I know both of you; yes, I told both of you, separately, to meet me here at 2100; yes, I find it very amusing that you both showed up early and decided to play chess without knowing you were both waiting for me."
Chris raised an eyebrow, but T'Pris spoke first. "Captain One. I apologize; I am unclear as to why you wished to meet both of us at the same time."
"I thought you'd get along well," One said, but yawned partway through the last word. "And I'm exhausted, so you keep playing chess and I'm going to go sleep."
Chris pushed on the bar to stand, but she waved him back down. "I'll go crash at Cait's."
He smiled; Cait wouldn't be there; she was currently shacked up with Phil Boyce, in that way where Chris had called his supposed best friend to meet him for dinner and had gotten a comm back saying Sorry, Chris. Currently occupied. One undoubtedly knew that, too. "Okay. I'll see you later," he said and kissed her on the cheek. She nodded at T'Pris, who nodded back, and left.
T'Pris was obviously not comfortable with the situation; her hands toyed with the stylus in a nervous gesture he found endearing. "Chris-excuse me, Admiral Pike-"
"'Chris' is fine," he said, interrupting gently. "I introduced myself that way, remember?"
She pressed her lips together in a small yet noticeable sign of agitation. "I must go," she said.
"All right," he said, and grabbed a bar napkin, scribbling on it. "Here's my comm number, if you want to play chess again. No expectations."
She took the napkin, but looked at him for a long moment. "I do not understand," she said eventually. "You and Captain One are clearly in a committed relationship but, if I am not mistaken-" Her tone clearly implied that she, as a matter of fact, was not mistaken. "-she introduced us because she thought we would perhaps find each other attractive."
"That's true," Chris said. "There are many ways to have committed relationships and Number One and I find ourselves most comfortable with one that isn't exclusive, even when we're both on the same planet."
T'Pris's eyes narrowed. "Please do not condescend to me, Admiral. Vulcans invented the concept of infinite diversity in infinite combinations."
"No, you just named it," he said, no heat in his voice, and she acknowledged the truth with a tip of her head. "We're both also willing to point out those individuals who we believe would suit the other's taste. I apologize if it unsettles you but the policy predates your involvement." He'd introduced One to her current first officer; she'd sent any number of tall, dark-haired, serene diplomats his way, including present company.
T'Pris paused for a moment; he could almost see the gears in her head turning. "All right," she said. "That is acceptable."
She meant his explanation, obviously, but he said, "I'm pleased that our relationship conforms to your standards."
She did not deign to reply, at least not in words. Instead, she turned to face the bar, her back to the room, and traced a line up the back of his left hand with her first two fingers, lightly, ending with her skin barely touching his.
It was the Vulcan equivalent of leaning over and touching her lips to his: an offer, and also a test. He turned his hand over, touched the pads of his fingers to hers, and carefully thought about her. She sucked in a quick breath, almost inaudible in the low hum of the bar, and looked up at him, brown eyes warm. “I believe your apartment is currently unoccupied,” she said, threads of humor and desire warming her tone.
“I believe you are correct,” he said, and stood. “Shall we?”
She nodded, clasped her hands in front of her, and preceded him out of the bar.
Summary: Pike and T'Pris play chess in a bar.
Pairing: Pike/T'Pris; background, ongoing Pike/One
Rating: PG-13
Content Advisory: Nothing in particular.
Word Count: 1400
Notes: T'Pris is not an OC; she's from Vulcan's Glory, like Cait Barry, although . . . well, check her out in Memory Beta if you want to know. I've rebooted her such that she went to the VSA instead of SFA and she entered the diplomatic corps after the destruction of Vulcan (where her first husband died; in the Prime Universe, he died in Starfleet service). And also, this fills the "open relationships and other poly permutations" square on my PikeOne bingo card. I'm sorry there's no porn. Maybe next week will be Porn Week.
Oh, and Humming Ale is an Anchor Brewing Company seasonal beer. Brown Pelicans (the drink) apparently exist, although I have never tried one.
The Officer's Bar was not to be mistaken for the officers' bar that was actually at Starfleet HQ; this one was frequented by Starfleet officers, as were most bars within a twenty-klick radius of the combined Starfleet campuses, but it was not necessarily officers-only. Admiral Christopher Pike liked it because it was rarely overfull, the bartenders were heavy-handed, and it carried a nice selection of microbrews.
It was for the last reason that he'd chosen it as a meeting place for himself and Number One after she got out of meetings that day. The Yorktown was on earth for a good six weeks and since they'd gotten over the initial need to have their hands all over each other, he felt they might as well be seen in public. Chris got there early, staked out a place at the bar, and ordered a pint of Humming Ale to start out his night.
A few sips into it, someone came up to the bar to his left-a young Vulcan woman, perhaps thirty-five or forty Standard years. Her black hair was braided and twisted into a knot at the back of her neck; she wore diplomatic robes in a grayish-brown that oddly flattered her coloring. She ordered something called a Brown Pelican in even tones, and the bartender nodded and turned to pick up a glass.
"A Brown Pelican?" he asked, unable to stifle his curiosity-and not just about the drink.
She turned her head just enough to see him and coolly assess him; he kept a neutrally-pleasant look on his face. Apparently she found him acceptable enough to answer. "Cider and ginger beer," she said.
Ah. In other words, non-alcoholic; unsurprising, as he'd yet to meet a Vulcan who indulged, despite the fact that alcohol didn't actually affect them. "Interesting," he said, with a half-smile.
She gave a short nod, not actually dismissive if he was any judge of Vulcan body language-and, after a Vulcan science officer and mentee, he thought he wasn't too bad at it-and accepted the glass from the bartender with a quiet, "Thank you."
She didn't leave the bar, though, and appeared to be uncertain, if a Vulcan ever was uncertain.
"Are you meeting someone here?" Chris asked.
She nodded. "I have arrived twenty-six point four minutes early."
"I am meeting someone in approximately a half hour as well," he said, falling into the more formal mode of speech he almost always did around Vulcans. "You are more than welcome to join me for the duration."
She blinked once, and slid onto the barstool next to his gracefully.
He watched her sit, took in the high cheekbones and smooth skin, as well as her precise movements and inexplicable hesitation. Something heated in his midsection, and he recognized it as desire. Futile, misplaced desire, of course; there was no possible way that a Vulcan woman of her age and beauty was unbonded. "I'm Chris," he offered, keeping his hands on the bar and his mind on his beer.
"T'Sai T'Pris Aduna Sepel kiran," she replied. "T'Pris."
Well. He spoke enough Vulcan to be able to translate that: against all odds, she was widowed, and effectively single. He tamped his libido back down-not the right time nor place-and, rather than asking her what she did or commenting on the weather or anything else that insipid, asked, "Do you play chess?"
He'd yet to meet a Vulcan trained at the VSA who didn't, so her nod was unsurprising. In response, he pulled out his padd from the pocket of his jacket and loaded up the tiny chess game on the screen. He handed her a spare stylus and asked, "White or black?"
"White, please," she said, and her face softened slightly around the edges.
They were reasonably well-matched; Chris had honed his skills while stuck flat on his back after the Narada incident, playing against everyone from Jim Kirk (surprisingly good, if a little erratic and suicidal in his approach) to Ambassador Sarek (able to calculate about fifteen moves in advance and devastating). T'Pris was, of course, VSA-trained, and had probably played against Ambassador Sarek as well, if she was stationed at the Vulcan Embassy nearby.
Chris was only one piece down when he heard, behind him, "Playing chess in a bar? Really, Chris."
He turned around with a smile. "Hey, One." While turning back to introduce T'Pris to One, he heard a faint click on the table and frowned, mid-turn.
T'Pris was scrambling to pick up her stylus where it had rolled next to Chris's half-full pint glass; her movements were jerky and uncoordinated. "Captain One," she said, after she retrieved it.
"Counselor T'Pris," One said. "I'm glad you could make it."
Chris and T'Pris both turned to her, and she smiled. "Yes, I know both of you; yes, I told both of you, separately, to meet me here at 2100; yes, I find it very amusing that you both showed up early and decided to play chess without knowing you were both waiting for me."
Chris raised an eyebrow, but T'Pris spoke first. "Captain One. I apologize; I am unclear as to why you wished to meet both of us at the same time."
"I thought you'd get along well," One said, but yawned partway through the last word. "And I'm exhausted, so you keep playing chess and I'm going to go sleep."
Chris pushed on the bar to stand, but she waved him back down. "I'll go crash at Cait's."
He smiled; Cait wouldn't be there; she was currently shacked up with Phil Boyce, in that way where Chris had called his supposed best friend to meet him for dinner and had gotten a comm back saying Sorry, Chris. Currently occupied. One undoubtedly knew that, too. "Okay. I'll see you later," he said and kissed her on the cheek. She nodded at T'Pris, who nodded back, and left.
T'Pris was obviously not comfortable with the situation; her hands toyed with the stylus in a nervous gesture he found endearing. "Chris-excuse me, Admiral Pike-"
"'Chris' is fine," he said, interrupting gently. "I introduced myself that way, remember?"
She pressed her lips together in a small yet noticeable sign of agitation. "I must go," she said.
"All right," he said, and grabbed a bar napkin, scribbling on it. "Here's my comm number, if you want to play chess again. No expectations."
She took the napkin, but looked at him for a long moment. "I do not understand," she said eventually. "You and Captain One are clearly in a committed relationship but, if I am not mistaken-" Her tone clearly implied that she, as a matter of fact, was not mistaken. "-she introduced us because she thought we would perhaps find each other attractive."
"That's true," Chris said. "There are many ways to have committed relationships and Number One and I find ourselves most comfortable with one that isn't exclusive, even when we're both on the same planet."
T'Pris's eyes narrowed. "Please do not condescend to me, Admiral. Vulcans invented the concept of infinite diversity in infinite combinations."
"No, you just named it," he said, no heat in his voice, and she acknowledged the truth with a tip of her head. "We're both also willing to point out those individuals who we believe would suit the other's taste. I apologize if it unsettles you but the policy predates your involvement." He'd introduced One to her current first officer; she'd sent any number of tall, dark-haired, serene diplomats his way, including present company.
T'Pris paused for a moment; he could almost see the gears in her head turning. "All right," she said. "That is acceptable."
She meant his explanation, obviously, but he said, "I'm pleased that our relationship conforms to your standards."
She did not deign to reply, at least not in words. Instead, she turned to face the bar, her back to the room, and traced a line up the back of his left hand with her first two fingers, lightly, ending with her skin barely touching his.
It was the Vulcan equivalent of leaning over and touching her lips to his: an offer, and also a test. He turned his hand over, touched the pads of his fingers to hers, and carefully thought about her. She sucked in a quick breath, almost inaudible in the low hum of the bar, and looked up at him, brown eyes warm. “I believe your apartment is currently unoccupied,” she said, threads of humor and desire warming her tone.
“I believe you are correct,” he said, and stood. “Shall we?”
She nodded, clasped her hands in front of her, and preceded him out of the bar.