"Are you speaking French?"
What Noel DelMonde had been doing was thoroughly cursing the combination of circumstances that had brought him to the point where he was actually taking time out of his day to figure out how to make a mess of smelly plankton taste like good crawfish.
"You not tell?" he replied crossly without bothering to look up. He'd come to the galley figuring that it would be abandoned this time of day since everyone he knew of who was planning to be in the contest was supposed to be on duty right now. However for the past hour or so there had been a steady stream of idiots wandering around banging pots and pans and proving that: A) he did not know everyone, B) more people had the same schedule as he did than he had assumed, and C) a lot of jackasses were willing to waste their breaks and lunch times on coming down to this God-forsaken hole just to bother him.
"It is a patois, non?"
Not waiting for him to turn to her, his questioner boldly thrust some of her very interesting features into Del's range of vision. Her interesting features included tousled reddish-brown hair, lively blue eyes, a dimpled smile, and an absolutely glorious pair of tits that were straining at the bonds of the fabric of her gold uniform as she leaned against the counter where he was working.
"Oui." Del smiled, finding himself suddenly in the mood for conversation. "C'est vrai."
His visitor tilted her head to one side. "You are French Canadian?"
"Good guess, cher." The engineer laughed as he cleared the 'meat' plankton off his cutting board and re-filled it with 'vegetable' plankton. "You only half a continent off."
"Half a continent?" A pretty frown tugged at the corners of his visitor's mouth. "You are from the Mexico?"
Del had to laugh again as he selected a few strips of plankton to roll in the batter he'd prepared. "No, I from New Orleans, darlin'."
"Oh..." The French cutie gave him another dimpled smile. "An Acadian?"
"Oui. Je suis... well, most folks call it 'Cajun' in Standard. You from where, sugar? Marseille?"
"Oh, mon dieu, I haven't lived in Marseille for so long," she scolded in mock outrage. "What would make you say that?"
Del turned the heat on his front burner up to 'boil.' "That li'l t'ing you do wit' th' vowels."
"Oh, you are one to talk about the vowels..." she teased.
Since the course of true lust never tended to run true in Del's experience, he was not entirely surprised when at that moment a very jealousy-drenched male voice called out. "Monique?"
The French cutie sighed apologetically rolled her eyes before answering. "I am here, Ramon."
The boyfriend -- why did there always have to be a boyfriend? -- entered carrying a set of formidable looking carving knives.
"Ramon," the cutie said, gesturing to Del, "This is...umm?"
"Noel DelMonde -- Del," the Cajun introduced himself, glad that his batter-caked hands gave him an excuse to just nod in greeting at Jealous Boyfriend.
Jealous Boyfriend sized him up. "I've met DelMonde."
Del squinted and tried to picture him without the sexy girlfriend or the carving knives. "On the Bridge, right? You Ordanza?”
"Ordona," Jealous Boyfriend corrected, and Del immediately relegated it to the spot in his brain marked, 'Not Fucking Important'.
"I am Monique DuBois." the cutie introduced herself, placing a hand on her chest -- which would indeed help him remember who she was from here on out. "I am on the Bridge too."
"Yeah. I t'ink I may seen you." He might not have worked all the way up to her face before, but parts of her seemed quite familiar.
"Well, it is good to meet someone who speaks French..." The cutie gave him another one of her wickedly teasing smiles. "...even if it is not proper French."
"Says somebody from Marseille," he teased back.
The cutie laughed. "Oh, you are so bad!"
Jealous Boyfriend was not smiling. "Monique..."
"Ramon..." she imitated him mockingly. "Well, a la prochaine, Monsieur DelMonde."
"A bientot, Mademoiselle."
Jealous Boyfriend gave him a farewell grunt of warning and walked away noisily sharpening his knives with sexy girlfriend firmly in tow.
"What are you doing?" a dimly familiar voice asked.
As a telepath, Del did not usually have any difficulty in recognizing people-- particularly people he'd slept with. However the woman before him was so different than the girl he had known, it was hard to be 100% sure that he was thinking of the right person.
"Not'ing," he replied, hoping that she wouldn’t notice that he was failing to greet her by name. “Jus' tryin' to be friendly.”
His old acquaintance crossed her arms. “It would be smarter to be friendly with someone who doesn't have a possessive boyfriend who likes to play with big knives.”
“Can't argue wit' that.”
She looked taller in her military boots and high hair, but also so much smaller without her signature layers of flowing scarves and skirts.
Her little mouth curved into a gently mocking smile. “You could just ask me what my real name is.”
Gypsy had always been always been a little hard to read… which could have been almost entirely due to the fact that she stayed so stoned all the time. Her overpowering yearning for Kam clouded over much of her personality too.
Strong, delicious memories of her and the fun they’d had as favorites in Kamikaze’s 'Royal Court' were coming back to him now… Everything except for her damned name. “Or you could jus' leave me hangin' here like an idiot fo'ever,” he growled.
“Hmmm... tempting,” she replied with playful cruelty.
Despite her cool, professional façade, drug-sweetened memories of endless days and night of hedonistic excess were playing through her mind too.
Memories of scarves, the fragrant smoke from a Rigellian cigarette, and…. “Cherry Blossoms,” he remembered at last. “Miss Sakura.”
She bowed slightly. “The same.”
Del shook his head. “How could I forget?”
“A reminder is in order,” she decided, all efficiency and practicality on the surface.
The bold eroticism of the reminder she had in mind almost took Del’s breath away.
“I not argue wit' that,” he said, his voice coming out a little hoarse. He looked down at the mess of plankton in front of him. “Now?”
She gave him another tiny cool smile before turning to leave. “Wash your hands.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Del agreed, sweeping his unfinished test meal into the recycle bin. Cooking, he was sure anyone would agree, was far less important than renewing an acquaintance with an old friend.
As a child on Vulcan reading his mother’s favorite books, Spock had simultaneously been intrigued by the florid metaphors employed by human authors and troubled by their wild inaccuracy. It was, therefore, with astonishment tinged with satisfaction that since meeting his young wife he could now say (although he probably never would) that he knew someone who could reasonably be described as “bursting into a room like a plasma bolt.”
Ruth Valley did not simply enter a space. There was an ineffable sparkling energetic aura about her that filled any room she entered. Her presence, as always, flooded his quiet cabin like glittering sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
“Yes?” he said, looking up from the navigational updates he was reviewing.
“You have to enter the cooking contest!” she demanded, her large violet eyes full of determined zeal.
“Cooking contest?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“There’s going to be a cooking contest,” she explained impatiently.
“Yes.”
“For the men.”
He nodded, though privately wondered what had possessed Jade Han to put forward such an idea and what had possessed the captain to approve it. “I have heard.”
“You have to enter,” she stated, crossing her arms and fixing her lips into an uncompromising frown.
Spock lifted an eyebrow at her vehemence. “For what reason?”
This question seemed to throw Ruth momentarily. It was as if she had not considered the possibility that he would not immediately accede to her demand. “It’s for morale.”
“My morale?”
“Sure,” she granted.
Spock tilted his head to one side. “You feel that my emotional state is interfering with my efficiency?”
His young wife’s sweet lips twitched as she considered how to respond. “The crew’s morale,” she said, amending her original answer.
“My emotional state is impeding the crew’s efficiency?”
“Yes,” she replied, then just as quickly changed her answer to, “No.… I mean…” Ruth gave a little growl of frustration. Her lips worked again as she seemed to rapidly work through a series of responses. Apparently finding none of them satisfactory, she gave him a ferocious frown as she headed for the door. “Uhm… I’m going to go do…” Again she seemed stumped for words. “…A thing,” she finished with a look that dared him to question this very ambiguous explanation. “I’ll be back.”
“Very well,” he acknowledged without protest.
She paused before the cabin door and pointed a warning finger at him. “I will be back.”
“I do not doubt it,” he replied, turning back to his work and looking forward to the next time her blinding sunlight would break through the bleakness of existence without her and leave him once again warmed… if frequently somewhat dazed…
Del wasn't aware he'd been singing until he noticed that two people in the galley were actively listening to him. It wasn't that he was particularly happy to be up to his elbows in plankton powder altered to masquerade as flour. Singing just seemed like a natural part of the rhythm of cooking. He was a little embarrassed to have been caught singing such a stupid ditty of a song until he realized his audience probably couldn't understand the patois lyrics.
"Somet'ing I can help ya'll wit'?" he growled at his listeners.
His uninvited audience consisted of a brown-skinned woman and pale-skinned man. The woman spoke up first. "You have a great voice," she said.
He could tell she meant it as a serious evaluation, not a glib compliment. She had a round, solemn face and thick, dark hair swept back into a ponytail. She was no glamour girl, but had a very strong, salt-of-the-earth feel about her.
"Thanks, darlin'."
Her companion was outwardly a very bland and solid looking sort of a fellow. Inside, though, he was a writhing snake pit of conflicting emotions and self-doubt.
"You have a really good sense of pitch," the fellow blurted out after Del stared at him for a few seconds.
"That important fo' good singin'," DelMonde replied a little sarcastically, thinking that would be the end of the encounter.
His two visitors fell into an awkward silence but did not leave.
"Somet'ing you wanted t' ask me?" he prompted.
The man looked at the woman and gave a little half-nod as if encouraging her to speak.
The woman gave a small sigh as if she hated being rushed. "I'm Sharon Intansah. This is Geoff Redford."
"Noel DelMonde." The Cajun gestured with his faux-flour-covered hands to indicate that he wasn't going to shake hands. "I go by Del."
Intansah nodded and fell into another contemplative silence as she watched him shake a powdery layer of faux-flour onto his ball of faux-dough. The Cajun could tell that her reticence was not due to bashfulness or social clumsiness. This was just way she preferred to handle interactions -- slowly and carefully. Her companion was shyer but less patient. He gave her another expectant half-nod in Del's direction.
"Do you play any musical instruments?" she asked, seeming a little reluctant to break the silence prematurely.
"A couple," Del replied, sensing that she already knew the answer to this question but was just asking to get the topic on the floor. "Why?"
"We're putting together a combo," she said. "We used to jam with some other players, but they're all on first watch and the two of us are going to be on second and third for the next couple weeks... So, for one thing, scheduling is going to be a problem."
"Oh." 'Other players' surely had to count Ruth among their number.
"We don't have a vocalist," Intansah continued in her patient, methodical manner. "We like working with a vocalist. And you're very good."
"Very good," Redford seconded.
"Hmmm." Del was always hesitant about performing in public. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy it. However, performing was a little overwhelming for him sometimes. It was so easy to get swallowed up in the emotions of the music and his audience... Then again, for a man whose emotional life currently varied only between feeling as dead inside as a space-drifting shipwreck or being so filled with bitter venom he could probably spit poisoned vinegar, being inside someone else's emotions seemed like nice vacation. "What do you got?"
Redford blinked at him. "Huh?"
"Who in your combo?"
Intansah -who was not afraid of pointing out the obvious --gestured to herself and her companion. "Well, us."
"Good," Del acknowledged. "An'?"
"Sometimes Mrraal sits in on a session," Redford offered.
"That big Caitian dude?" Del had a hard time picturing strings capable of standing up to those huge paws. "What he play?"
"Drums."
"Okay." The Cajun smiled. A good band needed a ferocious drummer. "What y'all play?"
"Geoff plays keyboard."
"An' what you play, cher?" the Cajun asked after Intansah let them fall into another silence.
"Oh, I started out as a cellist."
Del frowned, not able to see himself as a member of a string quartet. "Oh?"
"I also play the donjeli, the zither, the guslar, and the harmonium."
"Really?" the Cajun asked, his enthusiasm for the project beginning to wane.
"And the bass," Redford prodded gently, rather than articulating this information himself. "Tell him about the bass."
"I'm learning to play bass," his companion obliged.
"She's really good," Redford enthused.
DelMonde raised an eyebrow. "Bass fiddle?"
"Bass guitar."
The Cajun nodded. Much more promising. Taking advantage of the fact that they were in the midst of one of Intansah's long conversational lacuna, Del weighed the value of the diversion such a commitment might provide versus the potential aggravation it would introduce into his life.
He punched his faux-dough thoughtfully. One thing was for certain -- these two were in no danger of talking his ears off.
Of course, his being in a musical group that Miss My-Family-Owns-Every-Decent-Song-in-the-History-of-Ever had not been invited to join was bound to stick in her craw...
Del snorted to himself and muttered, "Well, she can live long an' bite my ass."
"Huh?" Redford seemed alarmed.
"What sorta style you favor?" Del asked.
"Style?" Intansah repeated.
"What kind o' music you like t' play?" the Cajun clarified.
The woman mulled this question over quietly for a moment. Finally she answered, "Loud."
Redford nodded. "Yeah, loud."
"All right, then." The Cajun had to laugh. "I t'ink I can help y'all out wit' some loud."
“Proposition,” Ruth Valley suddenly announced like a debater beginning a first constructive. “The featurelessness of the area of space in which we are currently traveling has a deleterious effect on the crew’s morale.”
Spock paused to consider. The two of them were seated comfortably in their cabin, enjoying one of the regular games of chess. “This area of space is not featureless,” he pointed out before moving his bishop up a level.
“Granted,” she replied easily, as she immediately answered with a blocking pawn. “However, it is not habitable by any known form of sentient life. And although it is not unexplored, it is not well-traveled.”
The Vulcan steepled his fingers as he surveyed the board. “True.”
“Therefore this ship has not and is not likely to meet any other vessels for some time,” she pointed out.
“No,” he agreed, his curiosity beginning to stir. His wife’s conversation during their matches usually tended to be more teasing than formal.
“Neither are we likely to be called on to visit any of the planets we may pass.”
“That is unlikely.” Spock nodded as he advanced a rook.
Ruth unhesitatingly countered it with a knight. “Our proximity to the center of this galaxy does provide a number of opportunities for unusual observations and readings.”
“Yes.” Once more the Vulcan sat back and tried to discern his wife’s emerging strategy.
“However, we are not yet close enough to the galactic center to begin recording or analyzing anything several other starships have not already observed,” she said, pushing a long lock of her golden hair back from her forehead with a cool, professional air.
“No.” Spock carefully changed the level of his bishop again.
Ruth plucked a pawn from the board and gestured with it. “Proposition: Boredom has a deleterious effect on crew morale and can lead to a significant decrease in efficiency.”
“For a predominantly Human crew, yes.”
The Antari plopped her pawn into an aggressive stance on the level opposite his bishop. “And the Enterprise has a predominantly Human crew?”
“Human and humanoid,” the Vulcan replied withdrawing his piece to its original position.
“Therefore, morale boosting exercises such as the cooking contest are vital at this time.” Ruth moved her queen into play.
“Dr. Han is a recognized expert on such matters,” Spock conceded a bit grudgingly as he countered. “I have no grounds upon which to contest her considered professional judgment.”
His wife edged her queen forward again. “Proposition: Participation by senior officers in morale boosting exercises increases interest and participation in said exercises by the crew.”
“This does generally seem to be true…” The Vulcan bolstered the protection around his king. “Although there are many other factors to be taken into account….”
“However,” the Antari pressed. “From your own observations, you have empirically verified that senior officer participation contributes significantly to the success or failure of these vital, efficiency-enhancing activities initiated by the ship’s experts on Human emotional health and psychological balance?”
“It does seem to have some effect,” Spock admitted reluctantly.
“Therefore.” Ruth twirled her queen between her fingers triumphantly before setting it down into the middle of the board. “You must enter the cooking contest.”
The first officer moved a pawn from one of the upper levels down to block the queen’s line of attack. “Not necessarily.”
The Antari’s eyes blazed. “Why the hell not?”
“I am not this ship’s only male senior officer,” the Vulcan replied. “Other senior officers have announced their intention to participate.”
“Haggis? Really?” his wife demanded angrily. “The ship’s safety and welfare are potentially at stake and you’re coming back at me with Scotty’s haggis?”
“I assure you I need not rely on Mr. Scott’s declared intention to share his fondness for Highland delicacies with the crew to demonstrate the support this contest is enjoying among the senior officers,” Spock responded. “Just today, the monthly briefing on the status of several long-range research projects being conducted in the Life Science department was repeatedly interrupted to accommodate what I am given to understand is an ongoing debate between Mr. Jang of Microbiology and Mr. Singh of Botany on whether Venusian eggplant is more advantageously prepared in either parboiled or curried form. Mr. Wardell of Physics mistakenly forwarded three beef stew recipes to me in place of an equipment inventory. And I have fielded numerous inquiries from Mr. Vasquez on the optimal boiling temperature of various viscous fluids.”
His wife frowned. “And that’s related to the cooking contest?”
“When the questions come from the ranking officer in charge of the Armory, I would hope so,” the Vulcan replied. “If you are concerned about the emotional health and welfare of the crew, I suggest you ask Dr. McCoy to repeat to you the lecture he delivered to me over lunch on the restorative properties of a dish he calls 'cheese grits'.”
The Antari made a sour face. “I think I’ll pass.”
“I would that I could have,” Spock assured her ruefully. “So as you can see, the ships’ male senior officers are going to be well represented among the competitors. Therefore unless you have amassed data that suggests my participation would somehow be more significant…?”
His wife crossed her arms and frowned. “I’m amassing data that suggests you are a womprat.”
“Indeed?” He lifted an eyebrow as Ruth heaved an exasperated sigh and rose from the table. “You are leaving?”
“Apparently I need to make sure the male members of my department are not submitting their quarterly reports in menu format,” she replied acidly, sweeping her thick hair up into a business-like bun as she headed to the door.
“Very well.” The Vulcan sighed as he surveyed their unfinished game somewhat wistfully. “Mate in three moves,” he predicted.
“Oh, yeah?” Ruth turned to point a warning finger at him before counter-forecasting, “Contest entry in two days, mister!”
“Hey, you might not want to use that counter.”
Sulu froze, halting an armful of bowls, knives, and food stuff centimeters above the galley workstation he intended to dump them on. He scanned the spotless metal surface for unseen pathogens. “Why not?”
“The new guy from engineering likes to use that one,” David Kelly warned him from the counter where he was wrestling with an unsightly glob of goop.
The helmsman couldn’t help grinning. “Oh, he does, does he?”
“Yeah,” Kelly cautioned. “He can be kind of touchy… Might bite your head off.”
"Been there, done that, have the neck stump to prove it,” Sulu assured him, spreading out his load on the workstation. “Don’t worry. Mr. Touchy-New-Guy-from-Engineering is an old pal of mine.”
Kelly tilted his head to one side quizzically as if he couldn’t imagine any circumstances that would put the helmsman together with the Cajun. “Really?”
“Absolutely,” Sulu confirmed cheerfully, while thinking, Oh, if you only knew…
After taking a moment to process this new information, Kelly asked, “Hey, this guy… Is he okay to talk to?”
“What do you mean?”
“He really seems to know what he’s doing… with the cooking, I mean,” Kelly replied. “Chekov was in here asking him questions – which really seemed to piss him off. The new guy called Chekov fifteen different types of dumbass, but his answers were really good.”
Sulu put his hands on his hips thoughtfully. Dave Kelly was an affable sort of fellow. Crazy about sports. Usually very straight-forward. A good navigator. Dependable. A real team player. Well-liked. If the Cajun had an ounce of good sense about being social, Kelly was exactly the sort of guy he should befriend first. There were scores of people on board who would accept the engineer into their circles if he had someone like Dave Kelly to vouch for him. “And now you want to ask him some cooking questions…”
Kelly gave the unpalatable-looking mess in front of him a rueful grimace. “Yes.”
“Without pissing him off?”
“If possible.”
“Hmmm… Tricky.” Sulu leafed through his memory for highlights of the many “Dealing with Del” lessons he’d learned over the years. “Okay. First thing, his name is Noel DelMonde... But never, never, never call him Noel. He likes to be called Del… but don’t call him that until he says, “Call me Del”…which he’ll do… eventually… maybe…”
Kelly raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Okay.”
“Then… well, obviously, he likes his space, so don’t rush up to him or anything. Just hang back and wait for him to make eye contact.”
“I did that.”
Sulu brightened. “And?”
“He said, 'What the fuck you lookin' at?'"
The helmsman sighed. “So, you’ve already talked to him?”
“If saying “sorry” and getting the hell out counts as talking.”
The helmsman nodded, encouraged that the encounter had not gone far worse. “Well, try again. This time he’s going to say something like, 'What you want now, numbnuts?' Then you ask your questions.”
“I don’t want to piss him off,” Kelly demurred, obviously having second thoughts about approaching the engineer again.
“You have to learn to tolerate a certain level of pissed off to talk to him,” Sulu admitted. “For example, he’s probably going to call you about nine or ten different types of dumbass during the conversation...”
“Okay.” Kelly sounded distinctly unenthused about the prospect.
“That’s just because he doesn’t know you,” Sulu assured him.
“And when he knows me?”
“It’ll be more like fifteen to twenty different types,” the helmsman confessed.
“Oh…”
Sulu sighed again and decided he was going to have to call Jer for some pointers on how to brief people on how to interact with the Cajun without making it sound so scary. “If you really are in a jam with the cooking, I could help you out…” he offered.
“No, that’s okay.” Kelly sealed the container he was working with and stowed it in a nearby freezer unit. “This new guy is really good. I mean, really good. He knows things about spices and everything.”
It was Sulu’s turn to lift an eyebrow. “Okay.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Kelly called as he exited the galley.
“Good luck!” the helmsman called after him. As he un-stacked the bowls and sorted the utensils he’d brought with him, Sulu had to mutter to himself, “I remember when I used to be the one who knew things about spices and everything… Dumbass…”
Ruth Valley smiled. “Hi, there.”
Spock blinked. The most surprising thing thus far about marriage was how the presence of his wife could elevate the most mundane of activities into a sensual adventure. For example, he had just finished his shower and had stepped into the main chamber of his cabin to retrieve a comb. This ordinary, unremarkable activity was suddenly transformed into an erotic escapade by the mere fact that his wife was waiting for him, wearing only a diaphanous robe and an inviting smile.
“My wife,” he replied, gathering as much dignity as was available when one was facing a beautiful woman while one was clad in nothing more than a towel.
“So….” She ran a wicked finger down the length of his chest.
In a most improbable move, Spock’s heart seemed to be suddenly lodged in his throat. “Yes?”
“Have you been thinking about what you’re going to make for the cooking contest?”
“No,” he answered honestly.
She pinched his stomach in a way that, illogically, felt wonderful. “Why not?”
“I am not going to enter the cooking contest,” he replied, wondering why she was still in doubt about this matter since they had discussed it at length on more than one occasion.
“Oh?” Instead of becoming irked as she had on those other occasions, Ruth still had a smile on her face as she drew back a pace and leaned against the wall in a manner that was… disconcerting. “Well, that’s too bad.”
“I am sorry that you are disappointed,” he said sincerely.
“And I am sorry that you won’t be getting any of this…” She slowly drew back her robe to reveal the pure golden glory that was her body. “….until you do.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?”
She traced an impudently tantalizing line down the delicious curve of her bared hip. “Yep.”
Spock drew in a deep breath. “That is unfortunate.”
The Antari ran her teasing tongue across her lips. “Very.”
“Because I have no intention of entering the contest,” he informed her once more, striving to make the point as clearly as possible.
“Really?” Ruth untied the robe, revealing more golden splendor. “Are you sure about that?”
He nodded and turned to retrieve his comb. “Quite sure.”
Ruth frowned and put her hands on her hips. “I suppose now you’re going to try to claim something about pon far coming only once every seven years.”
“I would not remind you of things you know so well,” he replied, brushing his hair back into the orderly appearance he preferred.
“Because I also know so well that the seven year cycle does not mandate celibacy.” Ruth inserted herself between him and the mirror. “Not by a long shot.”
“Not necessarily, no,” he agreed. At this proximity, it was easy to judge that from his wife’s quickened heart rate and the slightly flushed glow of her cheeks that being this close to him in a state of undress was having an effect on her as well. “But you are also well aware that Vulcan training provides mental and physical disciplines to deal with such necessities if circumstance demands.”
Ruth growled.
“And that neither Human nor Antari culture provide parallel training.” He calmly unwrapped his towel.
The Antari involuntarily drew in a breath and then frowned. “Why you big green tease….”
He held out a hand. “Coming to bed, my wife?”
“Damn!” she swore, tearing off her robe, grabbing him by the wrist, and pulling him towards their bunk. “You’re going to regret this.”
“Will I?” he asked as his wife pressed him down to the mattress.
“Yes,” she warned in between covering his neck with ravenous kisses and his body with hungry caresses. “Yes, I’m going to ravish you – as you so richly deserve-- but I promise that I will have worked out a dozen more Plan B’s by the time I’m done…!”
“You!”
Sulu turned to see a familiar figure level an accusing finger at him from the other end of the corridor.
“You dead to me, motherfucker,” Noel DelMonde announced grimly.
Although the three crewmen who happened to be passing by looked scandalized, the helmsman just shook his head. He had been dead to Del a number of times over the years resulting from offenses as great as blowing an entire forward graviton stabilizer array in a less-than-completely-successful low-g maneuver or as minor as a failure to display sufficient appreciation for meals or musicians favored by the Cajun. “And just what do you think I did this time?”
“Think?” DelMonde snorted as he approached carrying a battered guitar case. “What I know you done is set this pack o' jabberin' jackasses on me.”
Sulu couldn’t get over how grown-up Del looked now. In the back of his mind, he supposed he was still holding onto the image of the Cajun as the gorgeous, temperamental waif Jeremy Paget had brought back to the Clave as a delicious souvenir of a trip to New Orleans. Starfleet’s rigorous physical training -- as well as Starfleet Medical’s efforts to coerce the engineer into eating more meals than he drank -- had filled out DelMonde’s bony frame very handsomely… so handsomely, in fact, it took some effort for Sulu to ignore the portion of his brain that wanted to speculate lewdly on exactly how the engineer’s more mature body would look with the obscuring uniform removed. “Someone said something to you?”
“That the damn problem,” the Cajun complained, falling into stride beside him. “They all sayin' stuff to me all th' damn time. Thought I was gonna get me some peace an' quiet up in here – But no. Some smartass done be goin' 'round givin' everyone th' completely erroneous idea that my bark is worse than my bite.”
“And what makes you think that?” Sulu asked as innocently as possible.
“I overhear that bastard Dave Kelly tell someone jus' that,” Del replied, putting emphasis on the name and then watching carefully for telltale traces of guilt in his reaction.
Between the extraordinary sensitivity of the Cajun’s brain and the sharpness of his wit, he was a difficult man to withhold the truth from… which was exactly why Sulu delighted in fooling him when he could. “If Dave Kelly said it, what does that have to do with me?” he asked blamelessly.
Del narrowed his eyes. “Oh, you gonna act like you not know him?”
“I know him,” the helmsman admitted easily.
As the Cajun frowned, Sulu could almost feel tendrils from his friend’s mind raking over him like a thousand searchlights.
“He in your department, non?” the engineer probed. “You work wit' him all the time.”
“We’re not the only two people in that department,” Sulu pointed out. “Maybe Chekov’s been talking to him. The two of them are better friends than he and I are.”
That piece of misdirection had the advantage of being at least partially rooted in reality. Although they had played on different teams at different times, Pavel Chekov and David Kelly had mutual friends who traced back to their respective Academy sports careers. Because of that connection, Kelly – unlike most of Chekov’s non-Russian friends – called him 'Pasha.' Chekov reciprocated by calling Kelly 'D.V.' Sulu had never thought to ask what the 'V' stood for… or if the fact they called each other by nicknames indicated any particular closeness between the two.
The Cajun lifted a dubious eyebrow. “Oh, are they, now?”
“Yeah.”
“You gonna try to shift all th' blame on ol' T-Paul?”
“Who?”
“Chekov.”
Sulu blinked. Apparently, he was the only one who didn’t have a nickname for his frequent helmpartner. “Well he never acts like he’s afraid to talk to you.”
“That bull-headed dumbfuck not got the brains t' be afraid o' no one,” Del scoffed. “If the devil himself were to walk up to him, he’d jus' say, “Excuse me, pleez, but I do not zink you have clearance to be in thees corridor, sair.”
Sulu grinned, enchanted by this unexpected impromptu imitation. “I didn’t know you could do accents.”
“Why not?” the engineer drawled sardonically. “I do a helluva job wit' a Cajun one, non?”
“That you do,” the helmsman conceded.
“Jus' watch what you say 'bout me to these folks,” DelMonde warned as they paused in front of the turbo lift. “I not some backwards child that need a big brother goin' 'round makin' people be friends wit' me.”
Sulu shrugged charmingly. “Who says I’ve been saying anything?”
The Cajun twisted his lips into a dubious expression. “This all beginnin' to have the stink of a Jeremy Maurice Paget plan.”
“Then blame Jer, not me.”
“Like you ever hesitated t' go along wit' one o' his harebrained schemes.”
“He’s not the one who I seem to remember coming up with harebrained schemes,” Sulu retorted, then before a scathing reply could make it to the engineer’s lips, he added, “Where are you taking that guitar?”
“Rehearsal,” Del admitted sullenly. “I got me a band now.”
“Oh?” Sulu grinned. “How awful for you.”
“If all this attention every'body here is suddenly payin' to me do turn out t' be 'cause o' you,” the Cajun growled, shaking a warning finger at the helmsman as he exited into the lift, “I not never gonna forgive you.”
“If it does turn out to be because of me,” Sulu called after him with devilish glee, “You’re welcome!”