An Enterprise Thanksgiving Kink Meme Fic
Title: An Enterprise Thanksgiving
Author: near_family
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Characters: Kirk, McCoy, Sulu, with appearances by Chekov, Uhura, Spock, Scotty, Keenser, Gaila, Chapel, Rand, M'Benga, Giotto and minor OC's.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek or anything associated with it. I'm doing this for fun, not profit.
Notes: This set of mini fics was done for This Prompt on the Kink Meme which I've been filling over the last 3 days. I've done a bit of editing to what I've posted there.
Summary: Jim, Bones and Sulu decide to share the American tradition of Thanksgiving with their friends on the Enterprise. But because it's the Enterprise they have to contend with culinary mishaps, Klingon attacks and Vulcan logic picking apart the seasonal mythology.
-*-*-*-*-*-
THE TURKEY
-*-*-*-*-*-
“Okay,” Jim says counting off on his fingers, “We've got the turkey thawed, the fryer is on, the oil is heating. The thermometer's in there and my PADD is set to time. Before we actually get this bad boy started is there anything we're missing?”
Sulu looks up from where he's examining their trussed turkey for any signs that it hasn't thoroughly thawed. Straightening up he glances around the small section of the Enterprise's main mess kitchen that they've managed to rope off for themselves. Cooks and line workers are watching them from a distance with a mixture of curiosity and abject horror.
“Naw, that should be it.” Sulu says, as he checks the temperature of the oil. “Oh wait! Didn't McCoy want to be here for the actual frying?”
“Yah,” Jim says checking his chronometer. Bones should have been there by now. “I comm'ed him and he-”
Jim's interrupted by the chirp of his communicator. He looks at it, a little perplexed, then flips it open.
“Kirk here.”
“We're ready Jim. Are you going to start or what?” Comes Bones' voice over the comm, sounding grouchy and weirdly hollow.
“Bones? Where are you man? Why are you comm'ing me?”
“I'm behind you, Jim.” Jim hears a metallic 'clang' from over his right shoulder. ”Behind the mixer.”
Jim and Sulu whip around to look and almost miss the three people clustered around the giant kitchen appliance. They sort of blend in with the background.
“Bones.” Jim says.
”Yeah Jim?” Comes over the comm from the headset inside his friend's helmet.
“Why are you wearing a hazard suit?”
”Jim.”
“Yes Bones?”
“You are deep frying a fucking turkey... You.”
“I'm helping too, you know.” Says Sulu, arms crossed over his chest.
”I know. That's why I've got backup.” Bones replies, gesturing at the two med-techs behind him. One waves a chemical and heat resistant gloved hand.
“Your confidence in us is overwhelming.” Jim's feeling a bit irritated now. It's not like he makes a habit of blowing stuff up. Sure, he and Sulu do some crazy shit on occasion but they're taking this very seriously. “You had to wear hazard suits, really? That's such crap Bones!”
”Jim-”
“No Bones. We talked about this. It's our first Thanksgiving on the Enterprise and, if I remember correctly, you were the most adamant about doing it right.”
”Yeah okay, but Jim-”
“And that means,” Jim speaks loudly to drown out Bones' voice on the comm, “cooking everything ourselves. That means frying the damn turkey!”
”Jim.” Bones raises his hands.
“You know I've done this before right? It's not quantum physics-”
”The fryer-”
“-Which I'm also pretty good at by the way.” He continues, ignoring the way the med-techs are slowly backing away. “We're not going to get attacked by Klingons and the hull isn't going to rupture. We aren't going to spontaneously loose pressure or artificial gravity, there won't be floating globs of boiling oil-”
”Jim!”
“- Have a little trust in my girl, Bones! A little trust.”
“Oh shit! Clear the deck!” Sulu yells, pushing Jim from behind.
“What the hell-” Jim says, glancing back. It only takes him a split second to process what he's seeing and then he scrambles up onto the nearest prep station. Sulu following close behind. They watch silently as the oil boils over the side of the fryer then as the metal walls warp and the remaining contents spill onto the floor.
“So.” Jim says as the oil pools around three pairs of booted feet.
”Where did you get that portable fryer, Jim?” Bones says over the comm, which is still gripped in Jim's hand.
“The Ferengi.” Sulu replies in a small voice.
”The Ferengi? You can't be fucking serious! Jim, that's insane-” Blessed silence falls as Jim snaps his comm shut.
“I've changed my mind. I like the hazard suits. Very convenient.”
-*-*-*-*-*-
KLINGONS AND SWEET POTATOES
-*-*-*-*-*-
A temporary truce has been called in the kitchen.
The hot oil has been cleaned up. Sulu and Dr. McCoy are working at the same prep counter under the hawk like gaze of one of the kitchen managers. While Kirk is sitting in the corner peeling potatoes and muttering under his breath.
“Can't believe this. It's like some crappy 20th century army movie.” Kirk says, raking the peeler over an extra large spud with more force than is strictly necessary. “Peeling fucking potatoes.”
“Mashed potatoes are an important part of Thanksgiving dinner, Jim.” McCoy says rummaging through his pile of ingredients. “Someone's got to peel them.”
“Yeah, but why me? It's not like the fryer melting was my fault.”
“I'm actually kinda glad we're cooking the turkey the old fashioned way now.” Sulu says opening an oven to check on its progress. He uses a long spoon to scoop up and pour drippings over the top of the bird. It's coming along nicely. “This way we get to have real stuffing. It always tastes better when it's actually cooked inside.”
“But we're still going to make non-turkeyfied baked stuffing right?” Kirk asks, looking up from his peeling. “I want Spock to try some and he can't eat it if it's got turkey juice in it.”
“Dude, I've got that covered.” Sulu grabs a carton of mushroom broth and a bag of bread crumbs and holds them up so Kirk can see. “When we get to making gravy I'm going to make some from a mushroom base and then use the rest of the broth for the baked stuffing. This menu is totally Vulcan friendly.”
“Except for the actual turkey and the scalloped oysters.” McCoy says, finally finding what he was looking for.
“Scalloped oysters?” Kirk gives the CMO a questioning look. His face brightens when he sees what McCoy has found. “Mini Marshmallows! Toss that my way Bones.”
“Scalloped oysters are traditional in my family,” McCoy says, ripping the marshmallow bag open. “And these are for the casserole, not for you.”
“What kind of casserole has marshmallows in it?” Sulu asks, leaning in to look.
“Sweet potato casserole.” McCoy looks very pleased with himself as he says this. Kirk's head pops up over the doctor's shoulder as he begins to pour the marshmallows over his nearly complete dish.
“Bones...” Kirk whines as he watches the little white puffs of sugar cover the orange colored slices of tuber. “I can't believe you're ruining perfectly good marshmallows like that!”
“I can't believe he's ruining perfectly good sweet potatoes like that.” Sulu counters.
“I'm going to bash both your heads against a wall if you don't shut up.” McCoy grabs his casserole dish and inserts it into a waiting oven. “And don't think I'll go easy on you either! I'm a doctor, I can crack your skulls as much as I want and then fix you up later. When you're good an sorry!”
Kirk raises his hands in surrender and grins disarmingly. He opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by the overhead comm.
”Bridge to the Mess.”
“Spock?” Kirk says just as the klaxons go to red alert.
”Captain, your presence is requested on the Bridge. Three birds of prey have decloaked to our aft.” The ship jerks sharply, sending the three men sprawling against kitchen equipment.
“On my way!” Kirk yells, then turns to point at Sulu. “Come with me. Bones, prepare Med-Bay for incoming.”
“Don't have to tell me twice.” McCoy snaps as they take off running.
-*-*-
Nearly two hours later Sulu, Kirk and Spock are standing with the head of Security watching through a one-way window as two lieutenants attempt to interrogate their only Klingon prisoner. He's the lone survivor from the one bird of prey they'd managed to destroy. The other two having escaped by warping through a nearby nebula. The interrogation isn't going well.
“This isn't working.” Kirk sighs, running his hands down his face. “We've been at this for over half an hour and he hasn't even blinked.”
“These things take time, Captain.” Lieutenant Commander Giotto says.
“We might not have much time. We're not in Federation space but we're damn close. I need to know what those three ships were doing out here.” Kirk turns to Spock. “I don't like asking this but do you think you could get it out of him with a mind meld?”
“Melding with a conscious, non-consenting sentient being is tantamount to rape. This is not a combat situation. Star Fleet regulations on the treatment of prisoners are very clear on this point, Captain.”
“Yeah, that's what I thought.”
“What if we-” Sulu doesn't get to finish his thought because Dr. McCoy chooses that moment to storm into the observation room. He's holding something black and rectangular in shape which gives off the scent of burnt sugar.
“Klingon's won't attack, my ass.” He growls making his way toward the entrance to the interrogation room. “I'll be expecting gravity to kick it any second now. Fucking space.”
“Bones, how are things in Med-Bay?” Kirk asks sounding a little unsure of the situation at hand.
“Everyone lived, no grievous injuries.” McCoy snaps. He slams his hand on the door controls, enters his medical override when the computer prompts him, then storms into the interrogation room. The lieutenants look up in shock.
“He can't... do that...” Giotto says as McCoy sends his interrogation team scrambling.
“It appears that he can.” Spock replies. They all watch as McCoy drops the blackened dish on the table just short of crushing the Klingon's hands. The clear aluminum dish crashes loudly on the metal surface but doesn't break.
The doctor places his closed fists on either side of the dish and leans forward, his face inches away from the prisoner's.
“Do you know what this is?” He asks. His voice is soft and deep, certain death frozen solid. “It's a sweet potato casserole. My great grandmother's own recipe. It's not supposed to look like this. Do you know why it looks like this?”
The four men watch silently as the CMO continues to speak, staring down a Klingon, voice smooth like a razor blade brushing over silk. Sulu half notices their jaws going slack in the reflection of the one-way window, all except Spock whose eyebrow has completely disappeared under his hair.
At some point Giotto leans down toward the ensign operating the control panel, his eyes never leaving the scene playing out in the interrogation room and says in a low voice, “We're recording this, right?”
“Yes, sir.” The ensign whispers back in awe.
“Fuck,” Kirk says, “I didn't know Klingons could cry.”
-*-*-*-*-*-
THE FIRST THANKSGIVING - as told by James T. Kirk
-*-*-*-*-*-
“The very first Thanksgiving,” Jim starts his story as his friends and crew begin to fill their plates. “Was held in Plymouth in what would later be the colony, and then later still the state, of Virgina in the early 1600's. So, jeez, over 500 years ago.”
Jim pauses here to look around the table. It's a tight squeeze but they've managed to make enough space in the Briefing Room for everyone. The briefing table can fit his senior staff comfortably but with over twice that many people sitting around the table now, it's a bit crowded. Only a few of those present grew up in the area of the North American continent that used to make up the United States of America. Most of the rest are from different parts of the world and a few are from other planets entirely. Jim has been looking forward to sharing this old American tradition with them. And he knows Sulu and Bones, despite his grumbling, have been excited for this night as well.
“The Pilgrims had been in the area for about two years and they were in real bad shape. Their first harvest had been total shit-”
“Jim. Is this a Thanksgiving dinner or a bar?” Bones says, scooping a generous amount of mashed potatoes onto his plate and then waving the spoon under Jim's nose in a menacing manner. “No cussin' at the table.”
“Their first harvest wasn't good,” Jim says with emphasis. When Bones nods his approval he continues. “The Indian tribe in that area-”
“Captain-”
“Jim, Spock. We're off duty.”
“... Jim. I was under the impression that this event took place on the North American continent.” Spock says, one eyebrow quirked. “However, you mention Indians. The former country of India, if I recall accurately, was on the continent of Asia. Would you please clarify?”
“They weren't actually Indians, Spock.” Uhura says, looking at Jim, highly amused.
“Right, they were Native Americans. The people who lived there before the European settlers came.” Jim explains. He waves his hand as he tries to clarify. “But people called them Indians because, um...”
“Because Columbus was a moron.” Bones says, “And all the rest that came after weren't any better.”
“What happened to no cussing?”
“'Moron' ain't a cuss.”
“I'm unfamiliar with the individual named Columbus.” Spock interjects.
“Oh, well, he's the guy who discovered America.” Jim supplies offhandedly.
There's a moment as the table processes this statement.
“Wait... how does that work?” Gaila says, a fork full of cranberry sauce paused in front of her mouth.
“I concur,” Spock adds, “If there were people living on the continent before his arrival, how can it be said that Columbus discovered it? Surely the Native Americans must have noted it's existence prior to his arrival.”
“Nyet!” Chekov says, grinning over his glass of wine, “It was discovered by the Russians!”
The table dissolves into laughter. Jim raises his glass to the ensign. Trust the young navigator to bring humor to an otherwise embarrassing conversation.
“Yeah, okay. Columbus didn't discover America, but he's the first European who went there so-”
“No, it was the Norse.” Chapel says, buttering a roll. “In the 10th century. They landed in Canada.”
“What, the Vikings?” Jim asks.
“Nyet! The Russians, over the Bering Straight!”
“But surely the Native Americans-”
“Oh my God!” Sulu shouts, laughing. “This is so crazy, but Pavel's right!”
“Thank you.”
“How do you figure, lad?” Scotty speaks for the first time. Until this point he's been watching the conversation like it was a particularly entertaining game of rugby.
“Most of the people who first migrated to America came over the Bering land bridge, from Russia to Alaska.” Sulu explains. Chekov takes the opportunity to steal something off his plate and pop it in his mouth. “I mean, it wasn't Russia back then but that's where they were coming from, mostly. There were also people island hopping and traveling along the coasts in rafts and canoe like things from the Pacific islands but - did you just eat my pickle?”
“All right, all right! Let's get back to the story, okay?” When everyone has quieted down Jim continues where he left off. “Okay, so the first harvest was bad because a lot of their crops died. So the local Indians, Native Americans, decided to help them out. They told the Pilgrims how to raise corn and fertilize their crops-”
“Jim-”
“Yeah, okay. What is it this time?”
“Why did these Pilgrims travel to a location far from the aid of their own people without a proper understanding of basic agricultural techniques?” Spock asks, taking his first bite of the baked stuffing. He blinks at it, chewing slowly then takes another bite.
“I don't know-”
“And I want to know how they told them all these things.” Gaila adds, serving herself some more sweet corn. “They couldn't have spoken the same languages, not on Earth and back then.”
“Squanto translated!” Jim jumps on that question, relieved that he knows the answer. “He was a chief and he knew English-”
“How?” Uhura says, directing her full and undivided attention at Jim. He feels himself gaping at her like a fish. He doesn't know.
“He wasn't a chief, James.” Comes the New England accent of Lieutenant Commander Maedde from down the table. She smiles at him indulgently, the low lighting softening her laugh lines and highlighting the white in her hair. “And his name was Tisquantum. He and some others from his town were kidnapped by explorers about 10 or 15 years prior and taken back to Europe. He learned English while there and managed to get back, by talking his way onto an expedition ship to somewhere in New England I believe, and then walking the rest of the way on foot.”
“Right. All the experts need to be quiet now,” Jim says holding up his hands, palms out. “Your historical accuracy is messing with the story.”
“So, you don't want to know why the crops failed?” Patrick Matthew, the head of Xeno-Biology, asks innocently (though Jim has come to think, after getting to know Scotty, that it's really impossible to sound innocent with a Scottish accent) while investigating the contents of the scalloped oyster dish.
“Yes-”
“Later!” Jim says firmly, then continues the narrative before anyone can interrupt. “So Squanto -Tisquantum- and his friends helped the Pilgrims with their crops the second year and when they got around to harvesting they had a lot more to eat. So they had a feast to celebrate! And everybody brought something for the feast and they all ate lots of turkey and mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. The end!”
“Well, not potatoes. They weren't a European staple until the mid 1700's and- ” Matthew manages to get out before Jim pegs him with a bread roll.
“Fascinating...”
-*-*-*-*-*-
PIE AND CARDS
-*-*-*-*-*-
“May I!” Chapel shouts, slamming her hand down on the table. Janice Rand and Albert Neullar from Astrophysics echo the same words just milliseconds after.
“Jim, you moron! If you're going to feed out cards, at least give me something I want.” Bones shakes his head, completely exasperated, then snatches the card up off the discard pile. “No you may not. You're doing too well by half.”
“If I'd known you'd be this abusive I never would have agreed to this.” Jim grumbles, shooting Bones a dirty look. He's not alone in this. Chapel is giving Bones the stink eye from across the table.
They've moved their Thanksgiving celebration to a nearby rec-room for dessert and a game of cards. Jim had assumed it would be poker of some kind but when they'd finished lining the pies up on a side table Chapel had pulled out half a dozen decks of cards and enlisted Bones and M'Benga (who had bigger hands) to shuffle as she explained the rules. It was called Continental Rummy or 'May I', after the most common phrase heard during play (a close second being: Dammit Jim! Quit throwing play cards!). At some point in history, Chapel claimed, it had been a popular game among society ladies, who played it while their husbands retired to drink liquor and smoke cigars.
The table explodes with groans and cursing as Chekov lays out his three sets and tosses a nine of spades into the discard pile. He's the fifth to go down. The spectators among the group dole out points for the most creative profanity. Bones, in this at least, is winning hands down.
This game has come a long way since the good old days Jim thinks, Or, if it hasn't, the society men were definitely missing out.
“Games of cards are a traditional activity of this holiday?” Spock asks as play continues. He, surprisingly, hasn't been doing very well. It's possible he just doesn't have the sort of petty malice required to really kick ass at this game. Or the four-letter vocabulary.
“In some families.” Sulu says. He's opted out of playing in favor of nursing a beer and watching over Chekov's shoulder. “My Dad and my sisters and I usually go out sailing if the weather's good. But that's just us.”
“Most people go to football games or watch them on the holo.” Bones says, frowning at his cards. “I'm looking forward to the Egg Bowl myself.”
“Is it traditional to consume a dish of calcium encased zygotes while watching the athletic contest?” Spock asks, drawing a card. He considers it for a moment before adding it to his hand.
“...” Bones stares at Spock over his fan of cards. “Are you shittin' me?”
“It's the name of the contest,” Jim interjects before Spock can respond to that. “It's a rivalry between universities. Rival teams in a state play each other as the last game of the season, on or after Thanksgiving. All the old states have a big rivalry game and they've usually got some kind of name to go with it. Mississippi has the Egg Bowl, Florida has the Sunshine Showdown-”
“There's the Iron Bowl in Alabama.” Bones says, watching as Uhura draws a card. “And the Lone Star Showdown in Texas.”
“There's the Apple Bowl up in Washington, my cousin goes to school there.” Rand says tapping her cards impatiently. “It's your turn, Captain.”
“Jim.” He replies, only half paying attention. What he really needs is a seven of clubs. He pulls a card from the deck, takes a peek and tosses it right onto the discard pile. It's a queen of hearts. “There's parades the day after too. I loved those when I was little.”
“I've changed my mind, Jim.” Bones says, snatching up the queen of hearts. “You're my new favorite person.”
“Son of a-” The rest is cut off by the chorus of groans as Bones goes down (Uhura is starting to catch up to Bones' massive tally, getting bonus points for combining interesting curses from non-human languages).
“Black Friday!” Chapel coos when play resumes. “Now that's the real Thanksgiving competition.”
“Black Friday, eh?” Scotty adds another queen to Bones' first set. The entire table sighs in relief when he discards a six of diamonds from his last three cards instead of playing out. “Now tha's an ominous name, right enough.”
“Indeed. The color black is often used in North American societies to indicate strife and disaster.” Spock comments, turning toward Chapel. “What sort of contest came to warrant such a name?”
“It must be particularly blood thirsty,” Gaila says, looking up from her game of Kadis-kot with Keenser.
“Oh, definitely.” Rand smiles.
“A particularly vehement set of rivals?” Spock asks.
“More of a free-for-all really.” Chapel deadpans. “The rules are practically non-existent and the scoring is very detailed.”
“Wow, really?” Gaila claps her hands enthusiastically.
“Why haven' I heard o' this game?” Scotty asks. “It sounds excitin'.”
“Oh, for the love of- ” Bones says, rolling his eyes. “It's just shopping!”
“Even better!” Gaila cries.
“The acquisition of material wealth? How can such an activity be considered to be a contest of skill and ruthless intent?”
“You've never been to a department store, have you?” Rand arches a wry eyebrow.
“Or Walmart.” Chapel adds.
“Oh Walmart's the worst!” Rand groans. “It's barbaric.”
“It's shopping!”
“I'd rather fight a horde of Klingons, barehanded and blindfolded than go to Walmart on Black Friday.”
There's a moment of silence following this.
“Sulu?”
“Shut it.”
“You know, we've still got that Klingon officer in the brig. You could-”
“Shut it, Kirk! Those little old ladies are fucking scary and they've got pointy elbows.”
“Did your Mom and Aunts drag you out with them when you were little?” Maedde asks sympathetically from where she's relaxing on a recliner.
“Yes! Thank you.”
“That's unfortunate,” she replies, “Men really don't have the stomach necessary for Black Friday. That's why we leave them at home.”
“How does the gastro-intestinal track factor into the activity?” Spock asks.
“Excuse me?” Bones sounds insulted.
“Please, Leonard.” Chapel says. “You're too much of a gentlemen -don't argue, we all know it's true- you'd get plowed into the ground.”
“Pie!” Jim shouts over the noise. “I think we've all worked up an appetite by now.”
“Oh!” Sulu jumps up, heading toward the pie table. “Okay, guys! It's time for my family's tradition... Mystery Pie!”
“What is mysterious about pie?” Chekov asks, stashing his remaining cards in a pocket. He doesn't look particularly upset that they've stopped play on his turn.
“Well, I haven't told anyone what's in it.” Sulu says. He uncovers his pie and starts to cut thin slices, placing them each on a napkin as he explains. “My Mom makes one pie every year, along with the normal pies, that only she knows the contents of. Before we dig into the others, everyone has to take a bite of the Mystery Pie and then guess what it's made of.”
“Ohhh, that sounds like fun.” Gaila says, getting up to help pass out the slices.
“It is fun.” Sulu says, walking around the table, handing out pie and forks. “I'm actually really excited. Mom never tells anyone what she's making, but since I'm out in space she sent me the recipe so I could make it for my friends.”
It doesn't take long before everyone has a small slice. It looks a bit like pumpkin pie, but bleached out to a light gray-tan kind of color. It gets a few odd looks but everyone takes a fork full and puts it in their mouth, half laughing because synchronized pie eating looks pretty ridiculous. Murmurs of interest pop up around the table for a few seconds before the vaguely pleased sounds morph into the 'mmm's and 'uhm's used everywhere by people forcing themselves not to spit out a friend's proud culinary creation.
“Well Sulu...” Bones says after swallowing his piece. Chekov seems to have swallowed his as well. They both deserve medals. “I can honestly say I have no idea what this is.”
The room is filled with the sounds of those agreeing without using words while at the same time hoping no one has noticed that they have yet to swallow their own bites.
“It's okay guys,” Sulu says, swallowing his own mouthful with a tortured expression. “You can spit it out. It's really bad.”
The wave of relief that spreads throughout the room is practically tangible.
“What the hell kinda pie was that?” Giotto asks after the napkins have been disposed of.
“Parsnip.” Sulu says.
“Parsnip?”
“Yeah, I'm not sure what I was thinking. It's just that Mom's recipes are usually so good!”
“Well, don't worry about it, Sulu. Janice and I've made pumpkin, apple and pecan pies so dessert isn't a total bust.”
“You made pecan pie?” Bones sounds almost teary.
“I heard about the casserole-” Chapel starts.
“The entire ship has heard about the casserole.”
“-So I made sure to do pecan especially for you.” Chapel finishes.
“Bless you, woman. I take back every bad thing I've ever said about you.”
“And what would that be?”
“Nothing. You're a golden-haired goddess. Give me the pie.”
“Who's turn is it?” Scotty asks. “We should make a note if we're going to start in on the pie.”
“Mine. But do not bother with the note.” Chekov says, grinning before he even pulls his next card. The table watches, cursing futilely, as he places his last three cards face up on the table.
“How the hell are you doing that?” Jim gapes at the cards. They all play somewhere on the table. “This is the forth round and you've played out on three of them!”
“I am, how do you say, counting cards?”
“But we're using six decks!”
“Da.” Chekov says, getting up to grab what's left of the Parsnip pie. “Holding all that in my head? Is good practice for navigation.”
Then he digs into the pie with every sign of enjoyment.
-*-*-*-*-*-
POSTPRANDIAL SOMNOLENCE
-*-*-*-*-*-
“You did good, Jim.”
“Hmm?” He looks away from the movie on the holo screen, some action blockbuster from a couple years back. Bones is sitting next to him, pressed against him from hip to shoulder, Rand and Chapel take up the rest of the couch. They're slumped against each other, heads hanging at odd angles, snoring softly.
“They didn't last long.” Jim says, keeping his voice low.
“It's the tryptophan, from all the carbs. Knocks you out.” Bones rocks his head back, popping the vertebra in his neck. His eyes are heavy and drooping but he looks happy.
Jim looks around the room. The lights are dimmed for effect but most everyone is visible in the light from the holo. They're curled up in ones and twos and threes, some fast asleep, others half way there. Jim can see Sulu and Chekov staring at the holo vid but not really seeing it. Chekov is smiling to himself, maybe because he's still preening from killing everyone at cards, or maybe because Sulu is absentmindedly playing with his curls. Jim's gaze moves on, meeting Gaila's eyes from across the room. She raises a finger to her lips and winks. Jim wonders what Giotto will think when he wakes up to glittery pink toenails.
“This was fun. We should do it every year.” Jim says, stretching his arms up over his head then letting them flop down across the back of the couch. “It's a nice way to get everyone together and just be ourselves. Share something personal, make the ship feel more like home.”
“Mmm.” Bones hums his agreement.
Jim watches the movie for a few minutes. He can feel Bones breathing next to him, long and deep.
“I feel bad about the casserole,” He whispers, leaning in towards Bones' ear. “I know you were looking forward to it.”
“Wasn't your fault.”
“But still.”
“I'm over it, Jim.” Bones says with a sigh. “Besides, the scalloped oysters went over well and I got pecan pie.”
The last bit is said with a wistful smile.
“Yeah.” Jim half glances at Chapel before looking back at the holo.
“You jealous?” Bones is smirking now.
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Very sure.”
“Because she's very pretty and she made me pie.” Bones has that sort of rumble in his voice now that means he's trying not to laugh.
“She's your head nurse.” Jim says, shifting his shoulders and looking at Bones sideways.
“Doesn't mean she ain't pretty.”
“Oh.” Jim glances around the room again. He catches Uhura just nodding off onto Spock's shoulder. His first officer looks down at her and almost smiles, his lips barely twitching but Jim can see it in his eyes. He wonders what's taking so long with that tryptophan stuff Bones was talking about. He feels wide awake and jittery, his leg is bouncing, brushing against Bones' in a way that's probably really annoying. Jim turns back to face his friend.
“I thought your nursing staff was off limits.”
“They are for you.”
“Oh, but for you it's ok-”
“Jim.” Bones turns to face him, their faces almost touching.
“Yeah?”
“You told Chapel about the casserole,” Bones says, looking him straight in the eyes. “You sat next to me at dinner. You sat next to me playing cards. You're sitting next to me now. You're pulling all the dumbass, cliché shit every guy tries at least once - nice yawn and stretch maneuver by the way -”
“Going anywhere with this?” Jim asks, taking his arms off the back of the couch and crossing them over his chest.
“Yes. If you're going to come on to me, could you speed things up a bit? Cause I'm gettin-”
At some point Chapel wakes up and wolf-whistles loud enough to wake half the room.
*
End
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Fic Master List
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Author: near_family
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Characters: Kirk, McCoy, Sulu, with appearances by Chekov, Uhura, Spock, Scotty, Keenser, Gaila, Chapel, Rand, M'Benga, Giotto and minor OC's.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek or anything associated with it. I'm doing this for fun, not profit.
Notes: This set of mini fics was done for This Prompt on the Kink Meme which I've been filling over the last 3 days. I've done a bit of editing to what I've posted there.
Summary: Jim, Bones and Sulu decide to share the American tradition of Thanksgiving with their friends on the Enterprise. But because it's the Enterprise they have to contend with culinary mishaps, Klingon attacks and Vulcan logic picking apart the seasonal mythology.
-*-*-*-*-*-
THE TURKEY
-*-*-*-*-*-
“Okay,” Jim says counting off on his fingers, “We've got the turkey thawed, the fryer is on, the oil is heating. The thermometer's in there and my PADD is set to time. Before we actually get this bad boy started is there anything we're missing?”
Sulu looks up from where he's examining their trussed turkey for any signs that it hasn't thoroughly thawed. Straightening up he glances around the small section of the Enterprise's main mess kitchen that they've managed to rope off for themselves. Cooks and line workers are watching them from a distance with a mixture of curiosity and abject horror.
“Naw, that should be it.” Sulu says, as he checks the temperature of the oil. “Oh wait! Didn't McCoy want to be here for the actual frying?”
“Yah,” Jim says checking his chronometer. Bones should have been there by now. “I comm'ed him and he-”
Jim's interrupted by the chirp of his communicator. He looks at it, a little perplexed, then flips it open.
“Kirk here.”
“We're ready Jim. Are you going to start or what?” Comes Bones' voice over the comm, sounding grouchy and weirdly hollow.
“Bones? Where are you man? Why are you comm'ing me?”
“I'm behind you, Jim.” Jim hears a metallic 'clang' from over his right shoulder. ”Behind the mixer.”
Jim and Sulu whip around to look and almost miss the three people clustered around the giant kitchen appliance. They sort of blend in with the background.
“Bones.” Jim says.
”Yeah Jim?” Comes over the comm from the headset inside his friend's helmet.
“Why are you wearing a hazard suit?”
”Jim.”
“Yes Bones?”
“You are deep frying a fucking turkey... You.”
“I'm helping too, you know.” Says Sulu, arms crossed over his chest.
”I know. That's why I've got backup.” Bones replies, gesturing at the two med-techs behind him. One waves a chemical and heat resistant gloved hand.
“Your confidence in us is overwhelming.” Jim's feeling a bit irritated now. It's not like he makes a habit of blowing stuff up. Sure, he and Sulu do some crazy shit on occasion but they're taking this very seriously. “You had to wear hazard suits, really? That's such crap Bones!”
”Jim-”
“No Bones. We talked about this. It's our first Thanksgiving on the Enterprise and, if I remember correctly, you were the most adamant about doing it right.”
”Yeah okay, but Jim-”
“And that means,” Jim speaks loudly to drown out Bones' voice on the comm, “cooking everything ourselves. That means frying the damn turkey!”
”Jim.” Bones raises his hands.
“You know I've done this before right? It's not quantum physics-”
”The fryer-”
“-Which I'm also pretty good at by the way.” He continues, ignoring the way the med-techs are slowly backing away. “We're not going to get attacked by Klingons and the hull isn't going to rupture. We aren't going to spontaneously loose pressure or artificial gravity, there won't be floating globs of boiling oil-”
”Jim!”
“- Have a little trust in my girl, Bones! A little trust.”
“Oh shit! Clear the deck!” Sulu yells, pushing Jim from behind.
“What the hell-” Jim says, glancing back. It only takes him a split second to process what he's seeing and then he scrambles up onto the nearest prep station. Sulu following close behind. They watch silently as the oil boils over the side of the fryer then as the metal walls warp and the remaining contents spill onto the floor.
“So.” Jim says as the oil pools around three pairs of booted feet.
”Where did you get that portable fryer, Jim?” Bones says over the comm, which is still gripped in Jim's hand.
“The Ferengi.” Sulu replies in a small voice.
”The Ferengi? You can't be fucking serious! Jim, that's insane-” Blessed silence falls as Jim snaps his comm shut.
“I've changed my mind. I like the hazard suits. Very convenient.”
-*-*-*-*-*-
KLINGONS AND SWEET POTATOES
-*-*-*-*-*-
A temporary truce has been called in the kitchen.
The hot oil has been cleaned up. Sulu and Dr. McCoy are working at the same prep counter under the hawk like gaze of one of the kitchen managers. While Kirk is sitting in the corner peeling potatoes and muttering under his breath.
“Can't believe this. It's like some crappy 20th century army movie.” Kirk says, raking the peeler over an extra large spud with more force than is strictly necessary. “Peeling fucking potatoes.”
“Mashed potatoes are an important part of Thanksgiving dinner, Jim.” McCoy says rummaging through his pile of ingredients. “Someone's got to peel them.”
“Yeah, but why me? It's not like the fryer melting was my fault.”
“I'm actually kinda glad we're cooking the turkey the old fashioned way now.” Sulu says opening an oven to check on its progress. He uses a long spoon to scoop up and pour drippings over the top of the bird. It's coming along nicely. “This way we get to have real stuffing. It always tastes better when it's actually cooked inside.”
“But we're still going to make non-turkeyfied baked stuffing right?” Kirk asks, looking up from his peeling. “I want Spock to try some and he can't eat it if it's got turkey juice in it.”
“Dude, I've got that covered.” Sulu grabs a carton of mushroom broth and a bag of bread crumbs and holds them up so Kirk can see. “When we get to making gravy I'm going to make some from a mushroom base and then use the rest of the broth for the baked stuffing. This menu is totally Vulcan friendly.”
“Except for the actual turkey and the scalloped oysters.” McCoy says, finally finding what he was looking for.
“Scalloped oysters?” Kirk gives the CMO a questioning look. His face brightens when he sees what McCoy has found. “Mini Marshmallows! Toss that my way Bones.”
“Scalloped oysters are traditional in my family,” McCoy says, ripping the marshmallow bag open. “And these are for the casserole, not for you.”
“What kind of casserole has marshmallows in it?” Sulu asks, leaning in to look.
“Sweet potato casserole.” McCoy looks very pleased with himself as he says this. Kirk's head pops up over the doctor's shoulder as he begins to pour the marshmallows over his nearly complete dish.
“Bones...” Kirk whines as he watches the little white puffs of sugar cover the orange colored slices of tuber. “I can't believe you're ruining perfectly good marshmallows like that!”
“I can't believe he's ruining perfectly good sweet potatoes like that.” Sulu counters.
“I'm going to bash both your heads against a wall if you don't shut up.” McCoy grabs his casserole dish and inserts it into a waiting oven. “And don't think I'll go easy on you either! I'm a doctor, I can crack your skulls as much as I want and then fix you up later. When you're good an sorry!”
Kirk raises his hands in surrender and grins disarmingly. He opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by the overhead comm.
”Bridge to the Mess.”
“Spock?” Kirk says just as the klaxons go to red alert.
”Captain, your presence is requested on the Bridge. Three birds of prey have decloaked to our aft.” The ship jerks sharply, sending the three men sprawling against kitchen equipment.
“On my way!” Kirk yells, then turns to point at Sulu. “Come with me. Bones, prepare Med-Bay for incoming.”
“Don't have to tell me twice.” McCoy snaps as they take off running.
-*-*-
Nearly two hours later Sulu, Kirk and Spock are standing with the head of Security watching through a one-way window as two lieutenants attempt to interrogate their only Klingon prisoner. He's the lone survivor from the one bird of prey they'd managed to destroy. The other two having escaped by warping through a nearby nebula. The interrogation isn't going well.
“This isn't working.” Kirk sighs, running his hands down his face. “We've been at this for over half an hour and he hasn't even blinked.”
“These things take time, Captain.” Lieutenant Commander Giotto says.
“We might not have much time. We're not in Federation space but we're damn close. I need to know what those three ships were doing out here.” Kirk turns to Spock. “I don't like asking this but do you think you could get it out of him with a mind meld?”
“Melding with a conscious, non-consenting sentient being is tantamount to rape. This is not a combat situation. Star Fleet regulations on the treatment of prisoners are very clear on this point, Captain.”
“Yeah, that's what I thought.”
“What if we-” Sulu doesn't get to finish his thought because Dr. McCoy chooses that moment to storm into the observation room. He's holding something black and rectangular in shape which gives off the scent of burnt sugar.
“Klingon's won't attack, my ass.” He growls making his way toward the entrance to the interrogation room. “I'll be expecting gravity to kick it any second now. Fucking space.”
“Bones, how are things in Med-Bay?” Kirk asks sounding a little unsure of the situation at hand.
“Everyone lived, no grievous injuries.” McCoy snaps. He slams his hand on the door controls, enters his medical override when the computer prompts him, then storms into the interrogation room. The lieutenants look up in shock.
“He can't... do that...” Giotto says as McCoy sends his interrogation team scrambling.
“It appears that he can.” Spock replies. They all watch as McCoy drops the blackened dish on the table just short of crushing the Klingon's hands. The clear aluminum dish crashes loudly on the metal surface but doesn't break.
The doctor places his closed fists on either side of the dish and leans forward, his face inches away from the prisoner's.
“Do you know what this is?” He asks. His voice is soft and deep, certain death frozen solid. “It's a sweet potato casserole. My great grandmother's own recipe. It's not supposed to look like this. Do you know why it looks like this?”
The four men watch silently as the CMO continues to speak, staring down a Klingon, voice smooth like a razor blade brushing over silk. Sulu half notices their jaws going slack in the reflection of the one-way window, all except Spock whose eyebrow has completely disappeared under his hair.
At some point Giotto leans down toward the ensign operating the control panel, his eyes never leaving the scene playing out in the interrogation room and says in a low voice, “We're recording this, right?”
“Yes, sir.” The ensign whispers back in awe.
“Fuck,” Kirk says, “I didn't know Klingons could cry.”
-*-*-*-*-*-
THE FIRST THANKSGIVING - as told by James T. Kirk
-*-*-*-*-*-
“The very first Thanksgiving,” Jim starts his story as his friends and crew begin to fill their plates. “Was held in Plymouth in what would later be the colony, and then later still the state, of Virgina in the early 1600's. So, jeez, over 500 years ago.”
Jim pauses here to look around the table. It's a tight squeeze but they've managed to make enough space in the Briefing Room for everyone. The briefing table can fit his senior staff comfortably but with over twice that many people sitting around the table now, it's a bit crowded. Only a few of those present grew up in the area of the North American continent that used to make up the United States of America. Most of the rest are from different parts of the world and a few are from other planets entirely. Jim has been looking forward to sharing this old American tradition with them. And he knows Sulu and Bones, despite his grumbling, have been excited for this night as well.
“The Pilgrims had been in the area for about two years and they were in real bad shape. Their first harvest had been total shit-”
“Jim. Is this a Thanksgiving dinner or a bar?” Bones says, scooping a generous amount of mashed potatoes onto his plate and then waving the spoon under Jim's nose in a menacing manner. “No cussin' at the table.”
“Their first harvest wasn't good,” Jim says with emphasis. When Bones nods his approval he continues. “The Indian tribe in that area-”
“Captain-”
“Jim, Spock. We're off duty.”
“... Jim. I was under the impression that this event took place on the North American continent.” Spock says, one eyebrow quirked. “However, you mention Indians. The former country of India, if I recall accurately, was on the continent of Asia. Would you please clarify?”
“They weren't actually Indians, Spock.” Uhura says, looking at Jim, highly amused.
“Right, they were Native Americans. The people who lived there before the European settlers came.” Jim explains. He waves his hand as he tries to clarify. “But people called them Indians because, um...”
“Because Columbus was a moron.” Bones says, “And all the rest that came after weren't any better.”
“What happened to no cussing?”
“'Moron' ain't a cuss.”
“I'm unfamiliar with the individual named Columbus.” Spock interjects.
“Oh, well, he's the guy who discovered America.” Jim supplies offhandedly.
There's a moment as the table processes this statement.
“Wait... how does that work?” Gaila says, a fork full of cranberry sauce paused in front of her mouth.
“I concur,” Spock adds, “If there were people living on the continent before his arrival, how can it be said that Columbus discovered it? Surely the Native Americans must have noted it's existence prior to his arrival.”
“Nyet!” Chekov says, grinning over his glass of wine, “It was discovered by the Russians!”
The table dissolves into laughter. Jim raises his glass to the ensign. Trust the young navigator to bring humor to an otherwise embarrassing conversation.
“Yeah, okay. Columbus didn't discover America, but he's the first European who went there so-”
“No, it was the Norse.” Chapel says, buttering a roll. “In the 10th century. They landed in Canada.”
“What, the Vikings?” Jim asks.
“Nyet! The Russians, over the Bering Straight!”
“But surely the Native Americans-”
“Oh my God!” Sulu shouts, laughing. “This is so crazy, but Pavel's right!”
“Thank you.”
“How do you figure, lad?” Scotty speaks for the first time. Until this point he's been watching the conversation like it was a particularly entertaining game of rugby.
“Most of the people who first migrated to America came over the Bering land bridge, from Russia to Alaska.” Sulu explains. Chekov takes the opportunity to steal something off his plate and pop it in his mouth. “I mean, it wasn't Russia back then but that's where they were coming from, mostly. There were also people island hopping and traveling along the coasts in rafts and canoe like things from the Pacific islands but - did you just eat my pickle?”
“All right, all right! Let's get back to the story, okay?” When everyone has quieted down Jim continues where he left off. “Okay, so the first harvest was bad because a lot of their crops died. So the local Indians, Native Americans, decided to help them out. They told the Pilgrims how to raise corn and fertilize their crops-”
“Jim-”
“Yeah, okay. What is it this time?”
“Why did these Pilgrims travel to a location far from the aid of their own people without a proper understanding of basic agricultural techniques?” Spock asks, taking his first bite of the baked stuffing. He blinks at it, chewing slowly then takes another bite.
“I don't know-”
“And I want to know how they told them all these things.” Gaila adds, serving herself some more sweet corn. “They couldn't have spoken the same languages, not on Earth and back then.”
“Squanto translated!” Jim jumps on that question, relieved that he knows the answer. “He was a chief and he knew English-”
“How?” Uhura says, directing her full and undivided attention at Jim. He feels himself gaping at her like a fish. He doesn't know.
“He wasn't a chief, James.” Comes the New England accent of Lieutenant Commander Maedde from down the table. She smiles at him indulgently, the low lighting softening her laugh lines and highlighting the white in her hair. “And his name was Tisquantum. He and some others from his town were kidnapped by explorers about 10 or 15 years prior and taken back to Europe. He learned English while there and managed to get back, by talking his way onto an expedition ship to somewhere in New England I believe, and then walking the rest of the way on foot.”
“Right. All the experts need to be quiet now,” Jim says holding up his hands, palms out. “Your historical accuracy is messing with the story.”
“So, you don't want to know why the crops failed?” Patrick Matthew, the head of Xeno-Biology, asks innocently (though Jim has come to think, after getting to know Scotty, that it's really impossible to sound innocent with a Scottish accent) while investigating the contents of the scalloped oyster dish.
“Yes-”
“Later!” Jim says firmly, then continues the narrative before anyone can interrupt. “So Squanto -Tisquantum- and his friends helped the Pilgrims with their crops the second year and when they got around to harvesting they had a lot more to eat. So they had a feast to celebrate! And everybody brought something for the feast and they all ate lots of turkey and mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. The end!”
“Well, not potatoes. They weren't a European staple until the mid 1700's and- ” Matthew manages to get out before Jim pegs him with a bread roll.
“Fascinating...”
-*-*-*-*-*-
PIE AND CARDS
-*-*-*-*-*-
“May I!” Chapel shouts, slamming her hand down on the table. Janice Rand and Albert Neullar from Astrophysics echo the same words just milliseconds after.
“Jim, you moron! If you're going to feed out cards, at least give me something I want.” Bones shakes his head, completely exasperated, then snatches the card up off the discard pile. “No you may not. You're doing too well by half.”
“If I'd known you'd be this abusive I never would have agreed to this.” Jim grumbles, shooting Bones a dirty look. He's not alone in this. Chapel is giving Bones the stink eye from across the table.
They've moved their Thanksgiving celebration to a nearby rec-room for dessert and a game of cards. Jim had assumed it would be poker of some kind but when they'd finished lining the pies up on a side table Chapel had pulled out half a dozen decks of cards and enlisted Bones and M'Benga (who had bigger hands) to shuffle as she explained the rules. It was called Continental Rummy or 'May I', after the most common phrase heard during play (a close second being: Dammit Jim! Quit throwing play cards!). At some point in history, Chapel claimed, it had been a popular game among society ladies, who played it while their husbands retired to drink liquor and smoke cigars.
The table explodes with groans and cursing as Chekov lays out his three sets and tosses a nine of spades into the discard pile. He's the fifth to go down. The spectators among the group dole out points for the most creative profanity. Bones, in this at least, is winning hands down.
This game has come a long way since the good old days Jim thinks, Or, if it hasn't, the society men were definitely missing out.
“Games of cards are a traditional activity of this holiday?” Spock asks as play continues. He, surprisingly, hasn't been doing very well. It's possible he just doesn't have the sort of petty malice required to really kick ass at this game. Or the four-letter vocabulary.
“In some families.” Sulu says. He's opted out of playing in favor of nursing a beer and watching over Chekov's shoulder. “My Dad and my sisters and I usually go out sailing if the weather's good. But that's just us.”
“Most people go to football games or watch them on the holo.” Bones says, frowning at his cards. “I'm looking forward to the Egg Bowl myself.”
“Is it traditional to consume a dish of calcium encased zygotes while watching the athletic contest?” Spock asks, drawing a card. He considers it for a moment before adding it to his hand.
“...” Bones stares at Spock over his fan of cards. “Are you shittin' me?”
“It's the name of the contest,” Jim interjects before Spock can respond to that. “It's a rivalry between universities. Rival teams in a state play each other as the last game of the season, on or after Thanksgiving. All the old states have a big rivalry game and they've usually got some kind of name to go with it. Mississippi has the Egg Bowl, Florida has the Sunshine Showdown-”
“There's the Iron Bowl in Alabama.” Bones says, watching as Uhura draws a card. “And the Lone Star Showdown in Texas.”
“There's the Apple Bowl up in Washington, my cousin goes to school there.” Rand says tapping her cards impatiently. “It's your turn, Captain.”
“Jim.” He replies, only half paying attention. What he really needs is a seven of clubs. He pulls a card from the deck, takes a peek and tosses it right onto the discard pile. It's a queen of hearts. “There's parades the day after too. I loved those when I was little.”
“I've changed my mind, Jim.” Bones says, snatching up the queen of hearts. “You're my new favorite person.”
“Son of a-” The rest is cut off by the chorus of groans as Bones goes down (Uhura is starting to catch up to Bones' massive tally, getting bonus points for combining interesting curses from non-human languages).
“Black Friday!” Chapel coos when play resumes. “Now that's the real Thanksgiving competition.”
“Black Friday, eh?” Scotty adds another queen to Bones' first set. The entire table sighs in relief when he discards a six of diamonds from his last three cards instead of playing out. “Now tha's an ominous name, right enough.”
“Indeed. The color black is often used in North American societies to indicate strife and disaster.” Spock comments, turning toward Chapel. “What sort of contest came to warrant such a name?”
“It must be particularly blood thirsty,” Gaila says, looking up from her game of Kadis-kot with Keenser.
“Oh, definitely.” Rand smiles.
“A particularly vehement set of rivals?” Spock asks.
“More of a free-for-all really.” Chapel deadpans. “The rules are practically non-existent and the scoring is very detailed.”
“Wow, really?” Gaila claps her hands enthusiastically.
“Why haven' I heard o' this game?” Scotty asks. “It sounds excitin'.”
“Oh, for the love of- ” Bones says, rolling his eyes. “It's just shopping!”
“Even better!” Gaila cries.
“The acquisition of material wealth? How can such an activity be considered to be a contest of skill and ruthless intent?”
“You've never been to a department store, have you?” Rand arches a wry eyebrow.
“Or Walmart.” Chapel adds.
“Oh Walmart's the worst!” Rand groans. “It's barbaric.”
“It's shopping!”
“I'd rather fight a horde of Klingons, barehanded and blindfolded than go to Walmart on Black Friday.”
There's a moment of silence following this.
“Sulu?”
“Shut it.”
“You know, we've still got that Klingon officer in the brig. You could-”
“Shut it, Kirk! Those little old ladies are fucking scary and they've got pointy elbows.”
“Did your Mom and Aunts drag you out with them when you were little?” Maedde asks sympathetically from where she's relaxing on a recliner.
“Yes! Thank you.”
“That's unfortunate,” she replies, “Men really don't have the stomach necessary for Black Friday. That's why we leave them at home.”
“How does the gastro-intestinal track factor into the activity?” Spock asks.
“Excuse me?” Bones sounds insulted.
“Please, Leonard.” Chapel says. “You're too much of a gentlemen -don't argue, we all know it's true- you'd get plowed into the ground.”
“Pie!” Jim shouts over the noise. “I think we've all worked up an appetite by now.”
“Oh!” Sulu jumps up, heading toward the pie table. “Okay, guys! It's time for my family's tradition... Mystery Pie!”
“What is mysterious about pie?” Chekov asks, stashing his remaining cards in a pocket. He doesn't look particularly upset that they've stopped play on his turn.
“Well, I haven't told anyone what's in it.” Sulu says. He uncovers his pie and starts to cut thin slices, placing them each on a napkin as he explains. “My Mom makes one pie every year, along with the normal pies, that only she knows the contents of. Before we dig into the others, everyone has to take a bite of the Mystery Pie and then guess what it's made of.”
“Ohhh, that sounds like fun.” Gaila says, getting up to help pass out the slices.
“It is fun.” Sulu says, walking around the table, handing out pie and forks. “I'm actually really excited. Mom never tells anyone what she's making, but since I'm out in space she sent me the recipe so I could make it for my friends.”
It doesn't take long before everyone has a small slice. It looks a bit like pumpkin pie, but bleached out to a light gray-tan kind of color. It gets a few odd looks but everyone takes a fork full and puts it in their mouth, half laughing because synchronized pie eating looks pretty ridiculous. Murmurs of interest pop up around the table for a few seconds before the vaguely pleased sounds morph into the 'mmm's and 'uhm's used everywhere by people forcing themselves not to spit out a friend's proud culinary creation.
“Well Sulu...” Bones says after swallowing his piece. Chekov seems to have swallowed his as well. They both deserve medals. “I can honestly say I have no idea what this is.”
The room is filled with the sounds of those agreeing without using words while at the same time hoping no one has noticed that they have yet to swallow their own bites.
“It's okay guys,” Sulu says, swallowing his own mouthful with a tortured expression. “You can spit it out. It's really bad.”
The wave of relief that spreads throughout the room is practically tangible.
“What the hell kinda pie was that?” Giotto asks after the napkins have been disposed of.
“Parsnip.” Sulu says.
“Parsnip?”
“Yeah, I'm not sure what I was thinking. It's just that Mom's recipes are usually so good!”
“Well, don't worry about it, Sulu. Janice and I've made pumpkin, apple and pecan pies so dessert isn't a total bust.”
“You made pecan pie?” Bones sounds almost teary.
“I heard about the casserole-” Chapel starts.
“The entire ship has heard about the casserole.”
“-So I made sure to do pecan especially for you.” Chapel finishes.
“Bless you, woman. I take back every bad thing I've ever said about you.”
“And what would that be?”
“Nothing. You're a golden-haired goddess. Give me the pie.”
“Who's turn is it?” Scotty asks. “We should make a note if we're going to start in on the pie.”
“Mine. But do not bother with the note.” Chekov says, grinning before he even pulls his next card. The table watches, cursing futilely, as he places his last three cards face up on the table.
“How the hell are you doing that?” Jim gapes at the cards. They all play somewhere on the table. “This is the forth round and you've played out on three of them!”
“I am, how do you say, counting cards?”
“But we're using six decks!”
“Da.” Chekov says, getting up to grab what's left of the Parsnip pie. “Holding all that in my head? Is good practice for navigation.”
Then he digs into the pie with every sign of enjoyment.
-*-*-*-*-*-
POSTPRANDIAL SOMNOLENCE
-*-*-*-*-*-
“You did good, Jim.”
“Hmm?” He looks away from the movie on the holo screen, some action blockbuster from a couple years back. Bones is sitting next to him, pressed against him from hip to shoulder, Rand and Chapel take up the rest of the couch. They're slumped against each other, heads hanging at odd angles, snoring softly.
“They didn't last long.” Jim says, keeping his voice low.
“It's the tryptophan, from all the carbs. Knocks you out.” Bones rocks his head back, popping the vertebra in his neck. His eyes are heavy and drooping but he looks happy.
Jim looks around the room. The lights are dimmed for effect but most everyone is visible in the light from the holo. They're curled up in ones and twos and threes, some fast asleep, others half way there. Jim can see Sulu and Chekov staring at the holo vid but not really seeing it. Chekov is smiling to himself, maybe because he's still preening from killing everyone at cards, or maybe because Sulu is absentmindedly playing with his curls. Jim's gaze moves on, meeting Gaila's eyes from across the room. She raises a finger to her lips and winks. Jim wonders what Giotto will think when he wakes up to glittery pink toenails.
“This was fun. We should do it every year.” Jim says, stretching his arms up over his head then letting them flop down across the back of the couch. “It's a nice way to get everyone together and just be ourselves. Share something personal, make the ship feel more like home.”
“Mmm.” Bones hums his agreement.
Jim watches the movie for a few minutes. He can feel Bones breathing next to him, long and deep.
“I feel bad about the casserole,” He whispers, leaning in towards Bones' ear. “I know you were looking forward to it.”
“Wasn't your fault.”
“But still.”
“I'm over it, Jim.” Bones says with a sigh. “Besides, the scalloped oysters went over well and I got pecan pie.”
The last bit is said with a wistful smile.
“Yeah.” Jim half glances at Chapel before looking back at the holo.
“You jealous?” Bones is smirking now.
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Very sure.”
“Because she's very pretty and she made me pie.” Bones has that sort of rumble in his voice now that means he's trying not to laugh.
“She's your head nurse.” Jim says, shifting his shoulders and looking at Bones sideways.
“Doesn't mean she ain't pretty.”
“Oh.” Jim glances around the room again. He catches Uhura just nodding off onto Spock's shoulder. His first officer looks down at her and almost smiles, his lips barely twitching but Jim can see it in his eyes. He wonders what's taking so long with that tryptophan stuff Bones was talking about. He feels wide awake and jittery, his leg is bouncing, brushing against Bones' in a way that's probably really annoying. Jim turns back to face his friend.
“I thought your nursing staff was off limits.”
“They are for you.”
“Oh, but for you it's ok-”
“Jim.” Bones turns to face him, their faces almost touching.
“Yeah?”
“You told Chapel about the casserole,” Bones says, looking him straight in the eyes. “You sat next to me at dinner. You sat next to me playing cards. You're sitting next to me now. You're pulling all the dumbass, cliché shit every guy tries at least once - nice yawn and stretch maneuver by the way -”
“Going anywhere with this?” Jim asks, taking his arms off the back of the couch and crossing them over his chest.
“Yes. If you're going to come on to me, could you speed things up a bit? Cause I'm gettin-”
At some point Chapel wakes up and wolf-whistles loud enough to wake half the room.
*
End
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