number one

Fic: No Reason to Waste a Good Bottle of Wine (Pike/Number One)

Title: No Reason to Waste a Good Bottle of Wine
Author: igrockspock
Pairing: Pike/Number One
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Stranded on a downed shuttle craft in the cold with one blanket and two bottles of wine...whatever shall they do to pass the time? Fight predatory wild life, of course!
Notes: Happy early birthday, taraljc! I wish to remind you that you promised me your first born in exchange for this...



A vast canopy of jade green trees unfolds below them, broken occasionally by tall pinnacles of shining gray rock. In the distance, a pale green ocean shimmers in next to a beach of creamy sand. For a minute, he envies the Vilosians who live in this paradise, even if their existence depends on regular humanitarian drops from the Federation. He looks at Number One in the pilot seat next to him. Her back is straight as always, and her fingers are light on the shuttle's controls. He wonders if she would like a place like this, if he could swing an extra evening here after their dinner with the ambassador. For a split second, he pictures her on the beach, wonders if her toenails are polished like her fingernails, whether she'd dig them into the sand. The thought is both frivolous and inappropriate though, and he frowns slightly, shaking his head to clear the image.

"Something wrong, sir?" she asks, noticing the shift in his expression immediately.

"No," he says, "no, not all." He smiles, then adds, "how many times do I have to tell you not to call me -- "

A sudden sharp pop from the starboard engine cuts him off, and then all the alarms are ringing. The shuttle spirals through the air, barely under control, trees shattering underneath them, glass flying, and Pike has exactly one second to appreciate the view of Number One in the pilot's seat -- still ramrod straight, calculating vectors at the speed of light, the tip of her pink tongue poking out of her mouth as her fingers dance over faltering controls. Then the back of the shuttle smashes against a thick outcropping of rock, and everything is black and still.

When he comes to, Spock's voice is crackling through the damaged comm panel, and he wonders faintly how many times the man must have repeated himself to get that tone of urgency in his voice.

"Captain, please report. Captain, please report. Are you injured?"

Pike glances hurriedly at Number One. She is raising herself gingerly from the control panel, and he can see the beginnings of a goose egg on her forehead. Tendrils of hair are spilling out of her normally neat bun, but she is otherwise uninjured. When she raises herself fully, she shakes her head slightly, then pulls herself as close to attention as she can manage while still restrained by the safety harness.

"I apologize, sir. The starboard engine blew, and I failed to regain control." Her voice is as steady as ever, but he can see how much the word 'fail' costs her. What she's saying is bullshit though; if anyone else had been at the helm, they would have plunged straight to the surface and died. He tells her so, not that it changes the small, defeated slump of her shoulders. He wants to keep at her until she understands that blaming herself for this is insane, but Spock's voice is insistent, so he thumbs the comm switch instead.

"We're all right, Spock. Bumps and bruises and shattered glass, but nothing to worry about. Can you get a transporter lock?"

"Affirmative, sir. Stand by for beam out."

Then there is the sound of muffled, hurried footsteps, and suddenly Boyce's voice blasts over the comm.

"Shattered glass, did you say? Are the windows broken?"

"That would be a logical deduction, Doctor."

"And you still intend to beam them up? You're insane!"

"Doctor, broken windows will not interfere with a transporter beam, as I am sure you are aware."

"It's not the window, it's the germs, Spock. Captain, the atmosphere of Vilos IV is contaminated with the Trifarid virus. Highly contagious, passed by spoors so fine they escape even our best air filters. We can't beam you up till you're out of the incubation period. We can't risk the ship."

Pike's brow furrows. Number One looks over at him, and he sees an identical crease between her brows. None of this makes sense, and Phil is usually much more level headed than this. Suppressing a sigh, he flips the comm switch again.

"Phil, wait a second. Why wasn't this deadly virus included in our planetary briefing materials?"

"A valid question indeed, Doctor," Spock chimes in.

"Sirs, excuse me, but Dr. Boyce only just received an emergency communique from the ambassador himself. There's been an outbreak, and they believe the source is the forest you just crashed in."

Colt's voice is even higher pitched than usual, and this time Number One hits the comm switch before he can get there.

"Let me get this straight. You are saying that an outbreak of a deadly virus occurred in the twenty minutes since we left the ship, and in that time, they have traced the transmission vector to our specific crash location?"

Colt's voice rises an octave and Number One winces slightly.

"Captain, Commander, I apologize but the transmission arrived yesterday and I misplaced it."

"So when you said that the communique only just arrived, you meant that it arrived 24 hours ago and you lost it for 23 of them, thereby exposing us to a potentially lethal pathogen."

"Yessir."

"And I presume that the people of Vilos requested medical relief supplies, which we have now failed to deliver?"

"Yessir."

"And you therefore may have contributed to the deaths of hundreds or even thousands of people?"

"Yessir." Pike can hear the faint catch in her voice, and he's about to reign in Number One before she goes too far, but Boyce intercedes first, leaving him to wonder exactly who's in charge here.

"Listen," Phil says smoothly, "we'll figure out a way to get the Vilosians their medical supplies, and we'll sort out the rest when you get back to the ship. For now, just sit tight. We'll beam down supplies for controlling the symptoms and a bottle of wine if you need it."

Number One's brow furrows again.

"Excuse me, Doctor, but my understanding is that our immune systems are being assaulted by a deadly virus and we may need to care for one another in a medical emergency. Is consuming alcohol really advisable?"

"Stress is no good for the immune system, and I trust you won't overindulge. Anyway, it's a 48 hour incubation period, and you'll need a little something to pass the time."

At that moment, a distant snarl splits the air, followed by the scream of an animal in pain. Number One catches his eye over the comm panel, and he can see they're both thinking the same thing: no matter how bizarre this is, they can't beam up if it could even possibly risk the crew's safety, so they'd better start making sure they can survive the night here.

"Listen, Phil," he says, "just make sure you beam down something useful with all the booze. Dinner, maybe, and a blanket or six in case it gets cold at night. We'll call if we experience any unusual symptoms. Pike out."

Number One is on her feet before he's even cut off the transmission.

"Plan, sir?"

"You check the back and see what supplies can be salvaged. I'll stay up front, patch up these windows, and see if I can rig something to keep the heat going tonight."

"Yes, sir," she says crisply, and he definitely does not admire the view as she vanishes through the door to the cargo compartment. When she's gone, he fiddles idly with the sensor array while he waits for the package from the Yorktown. Intercepting it is the real reason he's up here; he smells a rat, and he's making damn sure he inspects whatever Phil beams down before Number One sees it. He thinks he's done a good job hiding his little crush, but sometimes Phil-the-bartender knows things Phil-the-doctor shouldn't. He hopes to god the box isn't full of condoms and data chips of make-out music.

Forty-five minutes later, a heavy-duty cargo box materializes behind the pilot's seat with a whine and a flash of gold light. All his hopes of a solitary inspection are dashed when the door to the cargo compartment whooshes open a second later.

"Sir, I've taken a complete inventory, and most of the supplies are damaged beyond use. I've salvaged a few first aid supplies and emergency rations, but I had to seal off the remainder of the shuttle as external temperature readings are dropping rapidly. We should remain here in the control area as it will be easier to heat."

He looks up at her incredulously, although he's not sure why he should be amazed by her efficiency after five years in space together.

"You did all of that in forty-five minutes?"

"Yes, sir," she says, and he sees the faint downturn in her lips that means she's inwardly rolling her eyes. He thinks he's insulted her by implying the task should have taken longer.

"I'll help you inventory the supplies from the Yorktown," she says and makes a move for the box, but he seizes her by the shoulders and maneuvers her into the pilot's seat instead.

"This is my job," he tells her, "you take a break." This is about more than wanting to inspect the box himself; she works too hard, and even though he knows she loves it, he can't let his best officer burn herself out.

He unpacks the box methodically, sorting its contents into neat piles on the limited floor space between the two seats. Two bottles of wine, one red and one white, nice vintages too -- Phil's been holding out on him. Under them are at least twenty hypos, meticulously labeled by hand for the treatment of symptoms that Pike frankly doesn't want to think about.

"Eyeball bleeding, sir? Really?" Number One asks, fingering one of the hypos, and he thinks he sees her shudder just a little. The virus suddenly seems more real now, and the bottles of wine don't seem like such a bad idea. While he reads the rest of the hypos, she takes advantage of his distraction and goes back to work, laying a few more medical supplies out on the floor. When he looks up again, she's unfolding a blanket, turning it over and over again with a puzzled look.

"I think it's a blanket," he offers, partly for the satisfaction of seeing her frown at him.

"I know that, sir. It's just that there's only one of them, and it doesn't look very big."

Pike winces. Really, it's too much. A bottle of wine or two, fine. The data chip of music that he'd discreetly palmed and hidden under his cuff, he can live with. Phil's an interfering old man, but he'd known what he was in for when he befriended the man. Hell, as much as he hates to admit it, he probably needs someone like that in his life. But contriving to force Number One under a tiny blanket with him? His first officer deserves better than that, and Phil is going to pay. After he gets them something else to cover up with.

He leans over the pile on the floor to hit the comm switch.

"Put me through to Spock," he orders.

"Spock here."

"Spock, I don't know who you left in charge of that supply box, but it's clearly missing -- "

A loud voice cuts across the bridge then. "Lieutenant Spock, urgent damage report from Lieutenant Commander Barry in Engineering..."

He hears Spock's heavy treads across the bridge, and then Phil's on the line.

"Nothing to worry about, Captain, nothing at all. Listen, I have a report on the virus to send down. Symptoms to look out for and the like."

"Phil, hang on a second, what's this damage report? Who's manning the comm?"

A sudden burst of static cuts him off.

"Ion storm." Another burst of static. "I can barely hear...call if...symptoms..."

The transmission cuts out with a final angry crackle, and when he calls again, no one answers. Pike leans against the back of the pilot's seat, wondering if it's better to state the obvious or let it hang awkwardly in the air between them. He's never known Number One to dodge the truth though, and he supposes he'd better get it out there before she has a chance to build any misconceptions.

"You think Cait and Phil are conspiring to set us up?" he asks her, keeping his voice as light as possible.

"I know it, sir." Her smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "We'll have to kill them when we get back." She fingers one of the wine bottles thoughtfully, her expression ever so slightly mischievous. "I suppose being trapped here is no reason to waste a good bottle of wine."

"I suppose not. Red or white?" She opens her mouth, but he cuts her off before she can answer. "Wait. I know this. Red."

She nods an affirmative, the corners of her lips twisted up in a faint smile. He meets it with a wider one of his own.

"You remember the rule, right?"

"No calling you sir when alcohol is involved?"

"And if we're going to be drinking, you might as well take your boots off and make yourself comfortable."

He uncorks the wine and watches her tug off her boots and untie her hair.

"Hey now, don't go crazy. I don't think I said anything about letting your hair down."

"Shut up and hand me the drink."

He enjoys this, being one of only two or three people in the galaxy who can make her relax. That's what Cait and Phil don't understand, he thinks. To have this access to her, to be privileged enough to see past the wall of perfection and into the woman -- even if it's only this tiny glimpse -- is precious enough. Intimate enough. It's not worth risking, no matter what the reward.

"Ten credits says there's no such thing as a Trifarid virus," he says to break the silence before his thoughts wander too far.

She lifts a coolly inquiring eyebrow.

"Twenty credits says you only want to believe that because you found the hypo for asymmetrical testicular swelling."

"Bet's no good. You'll never be able to prove it."

"Fine. Fifty credits says the virus exists but the ion storm doesn't, and Cait did something underhanded to get Colt posted to the comm station for the day."

"I'm sticking to my guns. No virus, and if there is, the quarantine is bullshit. I'll bet Phil and Cait are working double time right now trying to stop Spock from finding out."

"Mmm. You're probably right about that last bit. They're out classed though; they don't understand what it means to go up against a Vulcan. I'll raise you twenty that Spock's going to beam us out of here in about half an hour."

"I'd rather he didn't." The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and she looks down into her half-empty glass of wine, face as impassive as ever. Silence descends over them, but now that he's spoken the truth, he's not going to make himself look like even more of an ass by trying to take it back. The longest ten seconds of his life trickle past while he waits for her to speak.

When she looks up, there's a ghost of a smile on her lips and a challenge in her eyes.

"Guess we'd better drink faster then."

He swears to god his heart does not beat faster when she says it.

***


Halfway through the second bottle of wine, he reaches for his wine glass and their elbows brush together. He realizes with a start that they've been sitting so close that their knees are touching, and now that he's noticed it, he also has to notice the warmth that's flowing between them. Their eyes meet, and then he knows that she's noticed it too, and she springs away as if repelled by an invisible force field.

"I'm sorry, sir," she says, slipping into the safe ground of formality. "The heat doesn't travel very far."

"No," he agrees, "I suppose it doesn't."

He glances at the tiny heating unit he'd fashioned from a few stray circuits and salvaged bits of their emergency stove. For a moment, he wonders if she thinks he was part of the set-up attempt and that this poorly powered heater was his contribution to forcing her into his physical proximity. Mentally, he swears unholy revenge on Phil and Cait if anything that happens tonight jeopardizes her hard-won respect. He slides the heater closer to her as a small sign of his trustworthiness and hopes that it's enough.

She glances up at him, wry amusement on her face.

"I suppose it's all part of their plan. Make us sit close together and then we'll--" She cuts herself off and waves a hand dismissively in the air as if brushing off whatever thought would have completed that sentence.

"It's like a bad holovid," she finishes, lips pressed together in a thin line.

"The worst," he agrees. He feels angry for her; however well-intentioned their friends have been, she doesn't deserve to be caught in an awkward set-up with her commanding officer. He looks at her sitting with her back against the cargo crate, tense and upright, and wishes he could do something to ease the situation. Alcohol is all he has though, and he waves the remaining bottle in her direction.

"Care for a top-up?"

Her lips twist into the now-familiar ghost of a smile.

"I suppose there's nothing to do but drink," she says, extending her glass.

"That and inspect the ship for hidden cameras. They're probably watching our every move."

"If this is playing on the viewscreen in the bridge, do you promise you'll let me have a go at Cait? With a sword?"

"Not only would I allow it, I would sell tickets."

She laughs then, deep and throaty, a sound he's not sure that he's ever heard before. Suddenly it seems all right to look each other in the eye again, and she slides the heater back to its original position between them.

"I'm sorry, Chris. I know you had nothing to do with this. Don't freeze to death to prove it."

They both scoot an inch or two toward the heater until they are sitting almost as close as they were before. From the corner of his eye, he sees a bit of the tension leak out of her shoulders, and he feels relieved. Still, they hold their bodies carefully apart, making certain not to infringe on the other's personal space. He misses the easy banter they'd had just a few minutes before -- and the physical contact, to be honest -- but he doesn't know what to say to get it back, and they both sip their drinks in meditative silence.

Then a howl splits the air, closer than the one this afternoon, and they simultaneously abandon their half-empty wine glasses.

"You pick up any life forms when you ran the temperature readings?"

"A few. Distant, but large."

He leans over the passenger seat to flip the comm switch again and hears nothing but a fizzle of static.

"Wish Phil and Cait could've run a sensor sweep before they disabled the comm and stranded us down here with something hungry," he says, suppressing a sigh.

"I'll add it to the training manual," she says, and he snorts. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he hears another howl, and Number One's body tenses next to him.

"I advise a watch system, sir," she says.

"Agreed." He hands her the blanket. "I'll take the first watch. You sleep." Then, because he knows that she will argue, he adds, "I'm counting on you to be rested if one of those things come for us."

She nods curtly and secures her phaser at her hip before unfolding the blanket.

"I suppose nobody thought of predatory wild life and 4-hour one-man watches when they stranded us down here," she says, and he thinks for a second that he sees something sorrowful in her face, but she doesn't give him a chance to respond.

"Good night, sir. If they come, I'll be ready."


***


A gentle tug on his ankle jolts him from an uneasy slumber. He's chilled to the bone, and it takes a minute for him to remember where he is. His eyes fix on Number One lying on her back in front of him, her eyes alert.

"Sir," she whispers. "There's something out there." Very slowly, she points at two eyes gleaming through a small crack in the hull.

"Stay still," he whispers back. "Don't let it see you." He isn't sure whether whatever-it-is can penetrate the hull, but she's right in its line of sight, and he doesn't want to take any risks.

Her eyes flick meaningfully toward the broken starboard window. She raises her eyebrows as a question, and the sound of metal tearing in the cargo compartment answers before he can; whatever it is, it's big, and if it can tear through the hull, the patch on the window certainly won't keep it out.

"Is it inside?" he hisses, taking advantage of the creature's distraction to flatten himself on the floor and scoot closer to her.

"No. The hole it made must not be big enough. I can still see its feet."

Something bangs against the damaged window, and they both start. He reaches for his phaser and realizes that it's lying out of reach on the other side of the passenger seat, where he'd been welding the window patch hours before. He curses the alcohol; neither of them should have had anything to drink if there was the slightest possibility their lives were at risk.

"Do you have your phaser?" he whispers.

"Yessir. I've got a good shot through the crack, but I don't know about the one at the window."

He's about to tell her to take it -- best to get rid of one of them, at least -- when he hears a second bang against the window, louder this time, followed by the sound of claws scraping against metal patch. She reaches for the phaser at her hip, but by now, the second animal is back, and at her first hint of movement, its eyes fix on her through the crack. He lays a steadying hand against her arm and leans as close to her as he can.

"Don't move," he whispers, millimeters from her ear. "It can't see me. I'm going to get your phaser." He snakes a hand under the blanket. Every nerve in his body feels awake and tensed, and suddenly he is very aware of how close they are. He wonders if she feels it too, and then he hears her sharp intake of breath as his hand brushes her hip to pull away the phaser. He holds still for a moment, hoping the cat's bright eyes will drift away from them, and he feels his stomach press against her flank with every breath. It's making him hard. He closes his eyes against the sensation for a moment -- what is he, a lovestruck teenager? -- and when he's regained his control, he braces himself behind her shoulder and fires at the eyes still gleaming through the tiny crack. The big cat yowls and limps away, and at that moment, the window gives way with the scream of metal against metal.

"Sir!" she cries, pushing him down and pulling the phaser from his hand in one smooth movement. She fires just as the cat leaps through the air toward them, and it falls to the floor with a heavy thud right where he'd just been laying.

"Are you all right, sir?" She is still in firing position, her body lying halfway across his, his arm wrapped around her waist where he'd grabbed her as she pushed him to the floor.

He doesn't answer, and there's a moment of stillness where he feels her breathing hard against him. Then she drops the phaser, and he doesn't know who moves first, but her lips are pressed against his before the weapon hits the floor. She bites his lip, and he tightens his arm around her waist and rolls her over so he can press his whole weight against her. Her legs fall open under him, and she lifts her hips to meet his hardness. One of his hands snakes under her shirt and beneath her bra, and he rolls her nipple between his fingers and pinches hard to make her gasp. Her kisses trail heat along his jaw and down his neck, and then it's his turn to gasp as she sinks her teeth into the flesh where his neck meets his shoulder. He bucks against her, hard, and she responds by sliding her hands under his shirt to scrape her nails against his back.

"God, I've wanted you for so long," he moans into her neck, and she doesn't respond, just shoves a hand between them to unzip his trousers. She rises up underneath him, pushing him up onto his knees, and tugs his pants and shorts down in a single motion while he pulls her shirt over head.

"I need this, Chris," she breathes into his ear. He wraps his arm around her waist, pinning her against him so tight she can't move.

"Need what? Tell me."

"Need to be fucked. Hard."

His cock twitches against her stomach at the words, and he slides it against her skin, torturing himself as much as her with the slowness of it.

"I can do that," he says, and she laughs then, breathy little exhalations along his neck just before she begins to suck at the skin at the base of his throat. He pulls her mouth up to his. Kissing her deeply, he fumbles behind her to unclasp her bra. It's been a long time, and he prays to god he still remembers how. Her fingernails scrape against his chest, distracting him further from his task, and he thrusts against her.

"Like that?" she hisses, and he doesn't answer, just pulls off her bra and bends to scrape his teeth along the soft flesh of her nipple. Her hand wraps tight around his cock, and seconds later, she bends to take him into her mouth. He tangles his fingers into her hair and thrusts against her, but the mere sight of her lips wrapped around him threatens to push him over the edge, so he pulls her back with a little moan.

He wants to tell her how badly he needs to be inside her, but he's panting too hard to say it, so he settles for yanking off her trousers and her underwear. He looks at her naked form for one greedy moment, taking in the swell of her hips and the ample, heavy breasts that she'd hidden so carefully under her uniform.

"Please," she moans, her legs opening to him, and he brushes his fingers against her wetness for just a moment before he lifts her hips and thrusts inside.

***


He awakens with the unfamiliar weight of her head against his shoulder. One of her hands is spread gracefully over his chest, and he turns it over gently, studying the small ring of bruises he'd left around her wrist. The night comes back to him, vivid and real: pinning her wrists to the ground while he thrust inside her as hard as he could, watching her back arch off the ground, her hips rocking against his, equaling each of his thrusts with one of her own. He'd watched her come twice, once with his lips wrapped around her nipple, again with her breathing "god, Chris, yes," in his ear. Watching her face come undone had nearly sent him over the edge the first time, but he'd wanted to see it again, so he'd held on and kept fucking her as hard as he could. She'd liked it, he could tell, and if anyone needed release, it was her. Still, looking at the bruises on her wrists in the morning light, he feels vaguely ashamed. He should have slowed down, treasured her more, made sure that she knew his respect for her wasn't a pretense to get laid and that having sex with her wouldn't diminish his feelings for her, professional or otherwise.

He strokes her hair, and she opens her eyes languidly under his touch, then fixes them on the massive body of the cat still lying less than a foot away from them. Her eyebrows contract into a sharp vee.

"Did we check that was dead before we..." She settles for finishing the question by lifting her eyebrows.

"No," he says. "Definitely not. But I did before we fell asleep. You hit it dead on."

"Ah," she says. "Good."

She doesn't move her head from his shoulder, but the silence between them is heavier than he'd like. Hell if he knows what to say, though. Starfleet command simulations don't cover what to do the morning after you have wild sex with your extremely restrained XO, and it's been so long since he's done anything like this that he can barely remember how he'd once handled it.

Just then, the comm crackles to life and Spock's voice reverberates through the tiny cabin.

"Captain Pike, I apologize for the unanticipated loss of communications. We are now prepared to beam you out. Please acknowledge."

Number One lifts herself into a sitting position, smiling ruefully.

"I suppose you'd better answer that." She is already reaching for her clothes by the time he sits up, and he can feel then that the night is over. They're both fully dressed by the time he's off the comm, and when he hears her crisp "ready, sir," he can't help but feel a twinge of regret.

Spock is standing at stiff attention when they materialize in the transporter room.

"Sir, I must apologize for several potentially dangerous errors which occurred under my command. I will willingly submit to whatever disciplinary action you deem appropriate."

"All right then, report," he orders, slightly curious what trouble Phil and Cait had gotten into during his absence.

"Shortly after your departure, Chief Engineer Barry modified the duty roster to place Yeoman Colt at the communications station. I recognized such an assignment as highly irregular, but as it appeared to be your own order, I did not dispute it. Barry and Colt then fabricated a false message regarding the outbreak of a virus on Vilos IV, which Dr. Boyce corroborated with a a false entry in our medical data banks. When you called to question the situation further, Dr. Boyce sent a message to engineering, and Engineer Barry deliberately damaged a computer processing station which affected our communications array. I discovered their deceptions then, but as the equipment was sabotaged most effectively, repairs took quite some time. I do not believe they caused the crash, but they appeared exceptionally well-poised to take advantage of it. The three now claim to be suffering from Enolian brain fever, but I have been unable to verify this with a positive test result. Nonetheless, I can imagine no other motive for their elaborate plot to strand you on an inhospitable planet. I have confined them quarters, and we all await your decision regarding disciplinary action."

"No disciplinary action, Spock," he says, still profoundly aware of Number One's presence at his side. "None of it was your fault."

"Sir, I failed to circumvent the actions of three deranged officers..."

"You heard me, Lieutenant. You're off the hook this time. Dismissed."

"Aye-aye, Captain," he says, his Vulcan features betraying some small hint of shock. When Spock vanishes through the doors, he turns to face Number One.

"You were right, sir, the virus was a fake," she says. "I suppose I owe you ten credits."

"The debt's forgiven. I wouldn't have thought they could fool Spock for so long."

"Quite generous of you, sir. Of course, I have no intention of forgetting that you owe me twenty credits; you were afraid of the asymmetrical testicular swelling. I've never seen you turn so pale as when you saw that hypo."

He narrows his eyes, considering the mischievous spark in her own.

"Are you flirting with me, Commander?"

"I might be." She pauses. "Of course, I might just want my twenty credits."

"Well then, what say I buy you dinner when we get to Starbase 21 next week? That ought to make us even."

"Twenty credits for dinner, sir?" She snorts derisively. "I'm not that cheap a date."

She vanishes through the door before he has a chance to respond. He does like how she always gets the last word, he reflects as he ambles down the corridor to release his crew from house arrest. He hopes Phil knows a good restaurant on Starbase 21.
Hehe. What scheming officers Pike has! Spock is amazingly gullible, I suppose he totally underestimated human innovativeness. The Pike-Number One interaction totally rocked throughout but especially in their last exchange. :D
I like to think that this younger version of Spock was just outclassed by his superiors. I'm glad you enjoyed the Pike/Number One interaction :)
I GOTS A PRESSIE!

*flails*

I do not believe they caused the crash, but they appeared exceptionally well-poised to take advantage of it.

YEARS OF PLANNING. IN BOTH UNIVERSES.

ETA: also, thank you for the pressie.

Edited at 2009-09-10 11:41 pm (UTC)
I thought the comment was a thank you, but thank you for the extra thank you. I think it got a little crack-tastic on me, like maybe they should have just crashed rather than being set-up so elaborately. But it was fun to write.
Starfleet command simulations don't cover what to do the morning after you have wild sex with your extremely restrained XO

Word has it Kirk's been working on that part of the manual for nearly forty years...

Heh.

I enjoyed this a lot, and while there are too many things to point at individually, I did want to mention the brief description of her body being full and curvy and stuff, with nary a tiny or slender or delicate to be found.
Well, Majel was 5'9" at least, tho still a bit more willow-y than lush. Especially when you look at her next to Laurel Goodwin (whose uniforms as Colt were tailored very different than Number One's).
I toyed around with making her athletic-looking, which is probably truer to canon, but I just really liked the idea that she was hiding a really womanly body under all the no-nonsense uniforms. I'm sure that decision was in no way motivated by wanting to make her the kind of woman I want to look at naked...
I always forget, until I see her as Chapel, how awesome her legs are. Majel had awesome legs.
I'm so glad you noticed that! I have been trying very hard to include curvy women in my fic, which is not at all because I fit that description myself...
Awesome! I can't decide what I love more: the Pike/Number One interaction or Spock being outwitted and then taking the blame for it all.

*dies laughing* That was so much fun (and hot)! I sense a few senior officers are about to spend a few months peeling potatoes... :-D