THERE IS NO ALGORITHM FOR LOVE - A trek_crack fable.
TINAFL part two!
Tinafl is a funny word. Ideally it'd be spelled tinaffle, and would be vaguely related to trifle. Tinned trifle. Tinaffle. Tinned trifle with apples. There we go.
ANYWAY.
Part two, which has a fair few more words than part one, and one more illustration. Because you've been good this week.
Preview!
Chekov woke up the next day with a feeling of acute embarrassment. Sulu noticed there was something off when he gave him his morning hug, telling him "I believe in you!". Sulu pulled away, gripping Chekov by the shoulders.
"What's wrong, my precious little sky-eyed walking calculator? Is it the Captain? I've told you before, all Captain Kirk's touching is inappropriate touching. It's another life lesson."
He paused.
"Do you want another hug? They're very...soothing."
Chekov made his way to the engine room. Plenty of ledges there. Even some stairs. Perfect for his next experiment. Ideally he'd have had a control group, but he doubted he could talk anyone into that. Also, Dr. McCoy would probably end up killing them, and that would make him feel guilty.
Scotty had been drinking and writing technical journals again. The more he drank, the thicker his accent became, and he was on the border of being entirely incomprehensible. When he saw Chekov he leaped - well, wobbled - to his feet, crying out, "Why, it's the Russ...the Russhh...The bonnie wee laddie from the bridge!". He looked as though he was going to shake Chekov's hand, but then he overbalanced and managed to sprawl himself over a conveniently placed table. His eyebrows knit themselves together in an expression of confusion, worry, and contemplating table. He fumbled around his person until he uncovered a concealed a bottle of spirits.
"Ha' a drink wi' me, will ye?"
Three hours later, Scotty was lying on the floor, occasionally pawing at the air, and muttering snatches of song between fits of giggling. As Chekov looked for some handy stairs to throw himself down, he could have sworn he heard a cry of "Nobody cares about Scotty!"
Soon, he was dragging one leg and cradling the opposite arm as he made his way to the sickbay. He leaned against the wall in a way he hoped was seductive and trilled his 'r's as he said "Doctor. I fell down stairs. Again?"
McCoy raised one already-arched ayebrow.
"No, really! It is wery painful!" he grinned.
McCoy looked at him for a minute in a manner most nonplussed before grumbling, "If you insist."
"You've sprained it, that's all. Keep your weight on it as usual, but elevate and ice it when possible. And you have some minor bruising. Is that all, Ensign?"
Chekov bit his lip.
"Ectually...No. My left shoulderblade hurts." He narrowed his eyes. "But on Tuesdays only."
"Intriguing. And how would you describe the pain?"
"It is...it is...vell, I think I may be lactose intolerant!"
No response.
"And...and...I am allergic to mint maybe!"
Still nothing.
"And, and I have," he raided his brain for a suitable medical word of length, "Pre-eclampsia!"
"Pre-eclampsia. Is that so, now?"
"Yes! A wery bad case of pre-eclampsia. It keeps me avake at nights."
"Congratulations are in order, I suppose. Who's the lucky man?"
"Vhat?"
"And I suppose you've acquired dysmenorrhoea too."
Chekov nodded enthusiastically. "It is terrible! Can you help me, Doctor? I think I need to be examined."
McCoy sighed. He might as well give the boy something for his trouble.
"If you've having this many problems, Ensign, then I suppose a physical is in order."
Later on, McCoy and Kirk were sharing a drink in McCoy's quarters. Kirk because Spock was refusing to talk to him again, deeming it 'illogical', and McCoy because he'd enjoyed Chekov's checkup more than he'd admit to. Goddamnit.
"And...y'shee, it's not that I demand much, it's just that one alien's not enough! I need to spread myself around! Ish the law! I'm a damn ambassador, Bones. Those aliens NEED me! Sho...so...he knew what he was getting into! He has NO RIGHT to give me that...that /eyebrow face/. You know?"
Kirk looked at his empty glass with the closest approximation of puppy-eyes he could imagine. It reminded McCoy uncomfortably of Chekov. He swigged back more of his drink as Kirk started to make obscene gestures with his hands and leer at inanimate objects.
Forty minutes later, Kirk had lost more than half of his Starfleet uniform, and McCoy was slumped over the table, grumbling.
"It's unprofessional, for one thing. Completely. The boy is seventeen! That's..."
He attempted some multiplications in his alcohol-addled brain,
"Very young, Jim!"
"I don't see the problem with that."
"Well, you wouldn't!"
"Anyway, why's the jailbait going for you? You're all...craggy."
"Why, thank you for the compliment."
"No, I mean it, your face is all..." Kirk's voice petered out and his eyes glazed over a little.
McCoy took the captain's glass.
"I think you've had enough, Jim."
Kirk blinked a few times.
"Where'd my glass go?" His features suddenly took on a suspicious cast.
"Did Spock take it?"
This was the cue for McCoy to finish the rest of Kirk's drink.
"...and where'd my shirt go?"
The next morning, on the bridge, Chekov felt distinctly aware that he was being watched. He kept turning around with a face like a startled deer, but nothing came of it. However, when Sulu decided that everyone on the bridge deserved an extra mid-morning hug for being such great people to work with, and for having excellent personal hygeine, Chekov allowed himself time to observe all the other crew.
Spock suffered Sulu's hug with the face of a man who had borne a million atrocities, and who could stand to bear one more. Uhura, however, seemed more than happy, and Chekov noticed that he couldn't see where her hands were. When the turn came for Kirk's affirmation hug, he insisted on Sulu sitting in his lap, and then waggled his eyebrows suggestively over Sulu's shoulder at the Ensign.
After Sulu had hugged him, whispering softly in a voice like mahogany steeped in well-aged spirits that Chekov had pretty eyes and "lean, sensuous hands", Kirk strode up to Chekov, stretched him out so that he was leaning on Chekov's workstation, grinned broadly and said what he believed to be in Russian,
"Hey baby, your cabin or mine?"
Chekov blinked. It seemed that the Captain had just claimed to be descended from an ancient race of priapic goats.
"...Keptin? Did you mean to say that?"
"I mean whatever you want me to mean, sugar."
"If you are having issues with Russian language, I am sure I could help you...though talking to Uhura might be better idea, nyet?"
Kirk shot a glare at Uhura, who was attempting to suppress a fit of giggling by looking absorbed in the inner mechanics of a paperclip.
"No. She's done enough to help me with it. I'd much rather talk to you about it," said the Captain, casually taking off his shirt and flexing. "I'll see you in your quarters after the shift, Ensign."
"Oh...kay?"
"Yes. Yes it is."
After his shift ended, Chekov threw himself down on his bed and pouted a pout for the ages. Grabbing his dogeared journal, he began to write.
It was at this point Chekov heard a knock at his door. He flung down the journal, full of scrawled Cyrillic and numerous crossings-out, and opened the door to find himself face-to-face with the Captain.
The well-oiled Captain.
The well-oiled and plucked Captain.
The well-oiled and plucked and very very naked Captain, who stood with hands on hips, the light reflected off his gleaming chest blinding nearby redshirts. Chekov averted his eyes, feeling certain parts of his sanity slip away irrevocably.
"Eh, Keptain? Is there an emergency?"
"Oh yeah. There's an emergency. In my pants."
Chekov decided not to point out the obvious error in the Captain's logic.
It was then that a very irate Bones ran down the corridor and stabbed Kirk in the neck with a hypo and a "Dammit, Jim, what have I told you about chasing jailbait?".
Kirk grinned the grin of the heavily tranquilised, and promplty collapsed onto the floor. McCoy attempted to drag the Captain away, but he had been rendered far too slippery. He eventually grabbed Kirk's hair and dragged him away by it, his frictionless body leaving trails of baby oil in its wake. Chekov was sure he heard the Captain murmur, "Hey baby, how'd you know I was into the rough stuff?"
Chekov grinned giddily. He may just have been imagining it, but he'd swear blind that the doctor had just looked /right at him/. His head reeled with food metaphors.
Dumplings. Yes. Dumplings would be good.
---
Pictures! These are the Captain's, but were scanned by my beleagured old scanner, and that is why there are strange blotches on them in places.
And he does, too.
I call this one "the widowmaker".
also, IRONY - after writing about sprained ankles, I now have one. Oh how it hurts us.
Tinafl is a funny word. Ideally it'd be spelled tinaffle, and would be vaguely related to trifle. Tinned trifle. Tinaffle. Tinned trifle with apples. There we go.
ANYWAY.
Part two, which has a fair few more words than part one, and one more illustration. Because you've been good this week.
Preview!
Chekov woke up the next day with a feeling of acute embarrassment. Sulu noticed there was something off when he gave him his morning hug, telling him "I believe in you!". Sulu pulled away, gripping Chekov by the shoulders.
"What's wrong, my precious little sky-eyed walking calculator? Is it the Captain? I've told you before, all Captain Kirk's touching is inappropriate touching. It's another life lesson."
He paused.
"Do you want another hug? They're very...soothing."
Chekov made his way to the engine room. Plenty of ledges there. Even some stairs. Perfect for his next experiment. Ideally he'd have had a control group, but he doubted he could talk anyone into that. Also, Dr. McCoy would probably end up killing them, and that would make him feel guilty.
Scotty had been drinking and writing technical journals again. The more he drank, the thicker his accent became, and he was on the border of being entirely incomprehensible. When he saw Chekov he leaped - well, wobbled - to his feet, crying out, "Why, it's the Russ...the Russhh...The bonnie wee laddie from the bridge!". He looked as though he was going to shake Chekov's hand, but then he overbalanced and managed to sprawl himself over a conveniently placed table. His eyebrows knit themselves together in an expression of confusion, worry, and contemplating table. He fumbled around his person until he uncovered a concealed a bottle of spirits.
"Ha' a drink wi' me, will ye?"
Three hours later, Scotty was lying on the floor, occasionally pawing at the air, and muttering snatches of song between fits of giggling. As Chekov looked for some handy stairs to throw himself down, he could have sworn he heard a cry of "Nobody cares about Scotty!"
Soon, he was dragging one leg and cradling the opposite arm as he made his way to the sickbay. He leaned against the wall in a way he hoped was seductive and trilled his 'r's as he said "Doctor. I fell down stairs. Again?"
McCoy raised one already-arched ayebrow.
"No, really! It is wery painful!" he grinned.
McCoy looked at him for a minute in a manner most nonplussed before grumbling, "If you insist."
"You've sprained it, that's all. Keep your weight on it as usual, but elevate and ice it when possible. And you have some minor bruising. Is that all, Ensign?"
Chekov bit his lip.
"Ectually...No. My left shoulderblade hurts." He narrowed his eyes. "But on Tuesdays only."
"Intriguing. And how would you describe the pain?"
"It is...it is...vell, I think I may be lactose intolerant!"
No response.
"And...and...I am allergic to mint maybe!"
Still nothing.
"And, and I have," he raided his brain for a suitable medical word of length, "Pre-eclampsia!"
"Pre-eclampsia. Is that so, now?"
"Yes! A wery bad case of pre-eclampsia. It keeps me avake at nights."
"Congratulations are in order, I suppose. Who's the lucky man?"
"Vhat?"
"And I suppose you've acquired dysmenorrhoea too."
Chekov nodded enthusiastically. "It is terrible! Can you help me, Doctor? I think I need to be examined."
McCoy sighed. He might as well give the boy something for his trouble.
"If you've having this many problems, Ensign, then I suppose a physical is in order."
Later on, McCoy and Kirk were sharing a drink in McCoy's quarters. Kirk because Spock was refusing to talk to him again, deeming it 'illogical', and McCoy because he'd enjoyed Chekov's checkup more than he'd admit to. Goddamnit.
"And...y'shee, it's not that I demand much, it's just that one alien's not enough! I need to spread myself around! Ish the law! I'm a damn ambassador, Bones. Those aliens NEED me! Sho...so...he knew what he was getting into! He has NO RIGHT to give me that...that /eyebrow face/. You know?"
Kirk looked at his empty glass with the closest approximation of puppy-eyes he could imagine. It reminded McCoy uncomfortably of Chekov. He swigged back more of his drink as Kirk started to make obscene gestures with his hands and leer at inanimate objects.
Forty minutes later, Kirk had lost more than half of his Starfleet uniform, and McCoy was slumped over the table, grumbling.
"It's unprofessional, for one thing. Completely. The boy is seventeen! That's..."
He attempted some multiplications in his alcohol-addled brain,
"Very young, Jim!"
"I don't see the problem with that."
"Well, you wouldn't!"
"Anyway, why's the jailbait going for you? You're all...craggy."
"Why, thank you for the compliment."
"No, I mean it, your face is all..." Kirk's voice petered out and his eyes glazed over a little.
McCoy took the captain's glass.
"I think you've had enough, Jim."
Kirk blinked a few times.
"Where'd my glass go?" His features suddenly took on a suspicious cast.
"Did Spock take it?"
This was the cue for McCoy to finish the rest of Kirk's drink.
"...and where'd my shirt go?"
The next morning, on the bridge, Chekov felt distinctly aware that he was being watched. He kept turning around with a face like a startled deer, but nothing came of it. However, when Sulu decided that everyone on the bridge deserved an extra mid-morning hug for being such great people to work with, and for having excellent personal hygeine, Chekov allowed himself time to observe all the other crew.
Spock suffered Sulu's hug with the face of a man who had borne a million atrocities, and who could stand to bear one more. Uhura, however, seemed more than happy, and Chekov noticed that he couldn't see where her hands were. When the turn came for Kirk's affirmation hug, he insisted on Sulu sitting in his lap, and then waggled his eyebrows suggestively over Sulu's shoulder at the Ensign.
After Sulu had hugged him, whispering softly in a voice like mahogany steeped in well-aged spirits that Chekov had pretty eyes and "lean, sensuous hands", Kirk strode up to Chekov, stretched him out so that he was leaning on Chekov's workstation, grinned broadly and said what he believed to be in Russian,
"Hey baby, your cabin or mine?"
Chekov blinked. It seemed that the Captain had just claimed to be descended from an ancient race of priapic goats.
"...Keptin? Did you mean to say that?"
"I mean whatever you want me to mean, sugar."
"If you are having issues with Russian language, I am sure I could help you...though talking to Uhura might be better idea, nyet?"
Kirk shot a glare at Uhura, who was attempting to suppress a fit of giggling by looking absorbed in the inner mechanics of a paperclip.
"No. She's done enough to help me with it. I'd much rather talk to you about it," said the Captain, casually taking off his shirt and flexing. "I'll see you in your quarters after the shift, Ensign."
"Oh...kay?"
"Yes. Yes it is."
After his shift ended, Chekov threw himself down on his bed and pouted a pout for the ages. Grabbing his dogeared journal, he began to write.
It was at this point Chekov heard a knock at his door. He flung down the journal, full of scrawled Cyrillic and numerous crossings-out, and opened the door to find himself face-to-face with the Captain.
The well-oiled Captain.
The well-oiled and plucked Captain.
The well-oiled and plucked and very very naked Captain, who stood with hands on hips, the light reflected off his gleaming chest blinding nearby redshirts. Chekov averted his eyes, feeling certain parts of his sanity slip away irrevocably.
"Eh, Keptain? Is there an emergency?"
"Oh yeah. There's an emergency. In my pants."
Chekov decided not to point out the obvious error in the Captain's logic.
It was then that a very irate Bones ran down the corridor and stabbed Kirk in the neck with a hypo and a "Dammit, Jim, what have I told you about chasing jailbait?".
Kirk grinned the grin of the heavily tranquilised, and promplty collapsed onto the floor. McCoy attempted to drag the Captain away, but he had been rendered far too slippery. He eventually grabbed Kirk's hair and dragged him away by it, his frictionless body leaving trails of baby oil in its wake. Chekov was sure he heard the Captain murmur, "Hey baby, how'd you know I was into the rough stuff?"
Chekov grinned giddily. He may just have been imagining it, but he'd swear blind that the doctor had just looked /right at him/. His head reeled with food metaphors.
Dumplings. Yes. Dumplings would be good.
---
Pictures! These are the Captain's, but were scanned by my beleagured old scanner, and that is why there are strange blotches on them in places.
And he does, too.
I call this one "the widowmaker".
also, IRONY - after writing about sprained ankles, I now have one. Oh how it hurts us.