“So?” Daphne Gollub demanded.
As Del had hoped in vain she would not do, the chemist had not been distracted by Ruth’s dramatic exit from the service hatchway and had instead waited for him to come out. “So, what?” he growled in reply, keeping his eyes averted as he re-packed his toolkit in hopes she wouldn’t be inspired to remark on how red-rimmed they were.
“So in between all the fighting,” Gollub demanded. “Was there fixing?
“Can’t fix it.” Del took a cloth out the side of his toolkit and swiped his eyes and nose with it in a manner he hoped was discreet. “Too big a problem. Bigger than I thought.”
“Oy vey!” the chemist groaned, too wrapped up in her own drama to be concerned with his. “I swear, I just…”
“Not you,” the engineer interrupted gruffly. “Well, yeah, you, but they somet'ing else bad wrong.”
Gollub gripped his arm and just had time to plead, “Please, don’t tell…” before the intercom whistled.
“DelMonde, here,” he answered, while the chemist signed desperate requests that he conceal her presence.
“Just got a report of a malfunction in the Galley,” the Chief Engineer’s voice sounded.
“Narc,” Gollub mouthed, shaking her fist in what she assumed was the direction of the absent Ruth Valley.
“Yeah, Scotty, I on it,” Del reported. “But not 100% sure what we dealin' wit' yet. Got a couple diagnostics still runnin'.”
“Captain wants a full report in the Briefing Room in 10 minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” the Cajun replied as Gollub continued to signal desperate “I’m not here” messages.
“And bring that daft lass from Chemistry with you,” the Chief Engineer added, sounding none too pleased.
“Yes, sir.” Del snapped off the comm. and turned back to Daffy with a “What could I say?” shrug.
“I’m doomed,” the chemist wailed. “Dooooooommmed!!!”
“Once again, Lieutenant Gollub,” Captain Kirk said, wearing a puzzled frown. “Exactly what were you doing with that unit in the galley?”
The chemist was nervously folding and re-folding her hands on the briefing room table as if trying to pick the most innocent seeming pose possible. “I was excited about the contest, sir, and was… uhm… checking the unit.”
“Really?” Kirk picked up a tool from in front of him. “With a laser wrench?”
“It a good t'ing she was, sir,” Noel DelMonde said, coming to his friend’s rescue. “If she not call us an' we not go up in that service hatch, we have a bigger mess on our hands than we do now.”
“Apparently some of the organic matter we picked up from the J-19 system was contaminated with an algae that when raised to certain temperatures feeds on the type of triscillicate we use to insulate a few of the elements of the nutrient processing system,” Ruth Valley reported from across the table, looking as icy as her Vulcan husband who was seated at her side.
“An' not jus' the food processin' system,” Del added, fighting the urge to vomit on their perfectly matching blue uniforms. “The algae had already corroded th' casin' of the transfiliments. If we not caught it when we did, the malfunction would have spread to th' whole life support system.”
Kirk frowned at the half-melted panel that was serving as Exhibit B. “I don’t understand how we could possibly get warm algae inside sealed compartments.”
“We been havin' what I assume are a greater than normal number of explosions in the galley, sir,” Del reported somewhat apologetically.
“Explosions?”
“Uhm…” Ruth paused to figure out a way to answer that did not contain the words “cooking contest”. “Failed culinary experiments, sir,”
“Yeah. Just yesterday, Davie Kelly left a pressure cooker on the boil too long an' blew shit all up on th' ceilin',” Del informed his captain, then belatedly paused to reconsider his wording. “Uh… I mean, organic matter, sir.”
“Assuming we are able to effect repairs and hold the contest, we may get to test the accuracy of your description, Mr. DelMonde,” the captain of the Enterprise observed.
"We've traced the corrosion back to a couple of microscopic leaks in the ventilation system that were just big enough for the wee beasties to slide through," Scott reported.
Kirk continued to frown at the ruined machinery in front of him. “Am I correct in thinking – since some of us have been eating…uhm… organic matter from J19 for several days now -- that this algae is not equally corrosive to humanoid digestive systems?”
“Completely harmless, sir,” Ruth assured him, all cool efficiency.
“Even cleans out any triscillicate you happened to swallow recently, sir,” Del added, just to be a smart-ass.
The Vulcan frowned. “Triscillicates are not…”
Ruth quickly put a hand over her spouse’s to stop him. “Joke,” she said, using the same tone of voice that in a different circumstance she might have used to warn a fellow traveler that she’d spotted a snake in the trail ahead.
“I see.” The Vulcan did that snotty “Is that what that was supposed to be?” thing with his overdeveloped eyebrows that Vulcans always did as if after having been raised on a constant, laugh-a-millisecond, galactic-class supply of Vulcan humor all their lives, being exposed to the cheap, knock-off Earth version of the stuff was almost too much of a come-down to endure.
Kirk turned to the chemist who had been busy willing herself invisible. “I suppose a grateful commander would think you for your alertness, Lieutenant Gollub.”
“Well, sir…” Daffy smiled convulsively. “I really… don’t…”
“But a more suspicious one might confine you to quarters…” Kirk continued pointedly.
“As it so happens, sir,” the chemist said, half-rising. “I was just headed to my quarters, sir…”
“Now?” The Captain’s question had the tone of a suggestion.
“Right now,” Gollub agreed fervently.
“And staying there…?”
“Staying there until the contest,” the chemist confirmed adamantly.
“… is over,” Kirk concluded firmly.
“Yes, sir.” Gollub grimaced, but quickly morphed this expression to one of grateful obedience as she rose, giving obsequious little half-bows all the way. “Scramming, sir.”
The captain lifted a finger to stop her hand. “Leave the laser wrench.”
“Absolutely, sir.” The chemist backed out, keeping up a constant stream of “Yes-sir-of-course-sir-right-away-sirs” until the briefing room doors closed behind her.
Kirk turned to the Chief Engineer. “So how long will these repairs take?”
“We’re flushin' the algae out of the system right now,” Scott informed him. “The lads are already at work makin' replacements for the corroded components. I’ll need someone to go back up into that service hatch and swap out the damaged parts.”
“I do it, Scotty,” Del volunteered, thinking it would be good to have an opportunity to be alone and undisturbed for a few hours. “Might as well finish what I got started.”
“Good lad,” the Chief accepted, then turned to the Science Officer. “I’ll also be needing someone from your section to re-start the AI, Mr. Spock.”
“Very well.” The Vulcan nodded. “I will request…”
“I’ll do it,” Ruth volunteered abruptly.
All the men around the table did their own version of gaping at her in their varying degrees of astonishment. One of the Vulcan’s eyebrows shot up in an “Indeed, my wife?” expression of less-than-pleased surprise.
Her chin came up defiantly. “Finish what I started,” she replied, as if no one was ever going to tell her she couldn’t do whatever she decided she wanted to whenever she decided to do it, husbands, lovers, and captains be damned.
The Science Officer looked back and forth between his golden young wife and Del as if weighing the grave consequences of allowing them to be alone together against the grave consequences of forbidding them to be alone together.
The Cajun frowned mightily as the Vulcan tilted his head back and eyed him as if the engineer were a great big old rattler wriggling and hissing smack dab in the middle of his trail to happiness. But, of course, Lucifer was not afraid of snakes. “Very well,” he said simply.
"Hey, Del." Sulu's voice was deceptively casual. Del released a long breath that shuddered a bit more than he would have liked. He’d been mentally preparing for Ruth’s entrance into the service hatch above the Galley for almost an hour now as he replaced damaged components.
"What the hell you want?" he growled at the helmsman. "An' I not invite you here so jus' go th' fuck away."
"You really don't have 'inviting' privileges here," Sulu remarked as he made a seat for himself inside the cramped compartment. "Not like at the Clave where you claimed an entire hangar."
"An' you not answer the damn question," Del pointed out.
"Ruth came to my cabin looking to vent at Jilla for a little while," was the second non-answer. "I might have made the mistake of possibly suggesting that she could maybe try just a tiny little bit to perhaps see things from your perspective." Sulu shrugged. "I left before the purple glare of death could get a fix on my position."
"'Bout eight inches or so below center," Del clarified. At the helmsman's wry expression, he added, "An' that still not tellin' me what the fuck you want..."
"Nothing," Sulu finally responded.
Del glanced surreptitiously at him, his eyes narrowing.
"No need to go digging through my brain," the helmsman said with just a touch of irritation. "It's been hard for you. Anyone can see that. And as I'm a friend - " He paused. " - and Cobra's not here..."
"You married, motherfucker," The Cajun interrupted.
Sulu socked him hard on the shoulder. "I meant you could talk to me." He paused again. "I know how it feels to have to abstain from Antari charms."
"Sheee-it," Del snarled. "It were your damn choice. I come here expectin'..."
"Yeah, and she doesn't come to your cabin any time of the day or night in all states of dress and undress and act like there was never anything but friendship between you."
"Daffy does," the Cajun retorted.
Sulu rolled his eyes. "Like that's the same thing."
Del bristled, his mouth forming a hard line. "What, you sayin' there were somet'ing more'an sex 'tween you an' my Raw-eth?"
"First, she isn't yours," the helmsman noted, holding up one finger. "Second, she never was, not even at the Academy from what I've heard. Third, Daffy may be Ruth-lite, but she's not Antari. And fourth..." He took a breath. "Well, fourth is none of your damn business."
"Fourth is you bein' afraid o' telepaths," Del stated. "So you could never be more'an a li'l bitty bit in love wit' her, an' she'd know it."
The shock in Sulu's eyes was quickly masked by a scowl. "Certain people have HUGE mouths."
Del grinned wickedly. "Or real leaky brains."
The scowl lasted a moment more, then Sulu sighed, letting it go. "Look, the point here is that you can talk to me," he said. "I understand your loss, even if it's not completely comparable."
The Cajun snorted. "I musta hit rock bottom if I down to takin' relationship advice from you."
"What's that supposed to..." Sulu began.
"You really wanna get into it, mon ami? Del challenged.
Sulu frowned. "You've seen me at some low points, but..."
"You had high points?" the engineer countered trenchantly.
Del's senses were momentarily overwhelmed as memory immediately began swirling through the helmsman's thoughts - and just as immediately started to be pulled behind a wall of sharp edges and glittering black that howled like a hurricane. Sulu's voice sounded distant and Del had to fight to shut down the emotion and listen to the words.
"I have... I mean, I do have high points," he was saying. "I am having high points... " His expression darkened, even while his voice retained its pleading undertone. "Stop looking at me like that."
Del shook off the disconcerting images, covering his own unease. "I not sayin' not'ing," he falsely demurred, then let his lips twist into another sly grin. "That li'l woman you got now is awful fine...."
"And I know it," Sulu retorted. "And you can just keep those bedroom eyes of yours off her, too."
The Cajun shrugged diffidently. "She all yours, man," he said. He paused, then added. "An' I always heard Indiians are very... acceptin'."
"There's nothing for her to... Sulu began, then stopped at the look in DelMonde's eyes; warning and accusatory. Del could hear him damning the Engineer's telepathy. "Nothing's going on," he stated flatly.
Del cut to the chase. "Li was on the Hood," he remarked. "So I know what she like."
"There's nothing going on," Sulu repeated stubbornly.
"Yeah," the Cajun snorted, and heard the hurricane winds begin to reform in the helmsman's head. Something about the particular feel of them made him think better of what he'd been about to say. Instead, he just sighed heavily. "Sweet Jesus, why do we let women torment us so?" he asked.
"Without 'em, we'd have to turn to each other," Sulu responded. "And you know how well that would work out."
It had been said with a smile, but Del could still hear the storm just behind the words. In the face of it he said, "You know that I still gonna beat the shit out of you tomorrow in the cooking contest, right?"
Sulu chuckled and gave him a sharp grin. "I know you’re going to try..."
"You best go get your beauty sleep," Del advised, turning back to his work. "You gonna need it, son."
“You’re the one who needs to not wear himself out,” the helmsman retorted, patting him on the shoulder as he opened the hatch. "I’d hate for you to nod off while I’m collecting my trophies.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout me,” Del replied, inserting a new panel into the slot in front of him. “I sure I can beat you in my sleep.”
“Dream on,” Sulu advised, lowering himself out the entryway. “You’re never gonna get ahead of the King!”
“I’m not apologizing,” was the first thing out of Ruth Valley’s mouth as soon as she pushed open the hatch to the service compartment.
“Who th' hell ask you to?” Del growled. She’d delayed so long, it was almost a relief for her to be here. He’d been piddling around for almost a half hour now putting off making the call to say he’d gone as far as he could in the repairs without her there to restart the unit’s AI. Anything to avoid admitting that he needed her and could not continue without her…
“Shut up,” she growled back, flipping open a pack of programming discs.
“Why should I?” the engineer sneered, making a micro-adjustment to a control he’d adjusted three times already.
“Because…” Ruth suddenly stopped.
Del turned to her, blinking in surprise. “…because you kinda tryin' to apologize...”
“Shield,” she warned.
“Whatever,” he retorted turning back to his work.
The silence between them stretched until it grew fat and nasty from all the unsaid things they were both stuffing into it.
“I should have told you,” Ruth granted abruptly, as if they were near the end of a long argument. “I had no idea you were going to transfer, but… anyway… I should have told you. You deserved that much.”
“Yeah,” Del agreed tightly, as weary as if they’d been fighting for hours instead of sitting in silence for minutes.
“But..” Ruth waited until he turned and met her eyes. “You gotta let go.”
Del angrily turned back to his circuit boards. “Fuck you.”
“No.” She put a hand on his arm. “You have got to let go.”
He brushed her hand away. “I hurt, Ruth,” he confessed to the panel in front of him.
“I know,” she agreed sadly.
His heart felt like it was being squeezed by a vice. He leaned his aching head against the panel. “I hurt bad.”
She nodded. “You’ve got to stop that too,” she replied with gentle mercilessness.
“I would if I fuckin' could,” he burst out. “But I can’t an' you know it!”
What both of them knew is that one of them was a healer of hurts of all sorts… including psychic ones.
The Antari drew back warily. “I’m not offering…” she began firmly.
“I rather be skinned alive than t' ask you,” he spat back bitterly.
Ruth closed her eyes. “Shut up.”
The pain in his head and heart was so bad, it was nearly bringing tears to his eyes. “Why should I?”
“Because…” The Antari took in a deep breath. “Because I’m offering.”
He blinked at her disbelievingly, but the truth was written all over her face. As much as she’d been trying to run away from the possibility, she was coming to grips with the knowledge that as a healer, she had the power in her hands to ease their shared pain.
Although she couldn’t un-break his heart, she did have the ability to go inside him as she had at the Academy and bind up some of the loose psychic wires in his head that were causing them both to suffer.
“Don’t act like you doin' me no favor,” he snarled, instead of breaking down into grateful tears.
“Shut up,” she ordered, unimpressed.
“Why?”
“Because…” She took another deep breath and reached for his temples. “I’m doing us both a favor.”
He stopped her hand. “Does your Vulcan husband let you do favors fo' men you used to fuck?”
She snorted. “You better hope he does.”
“Why?”
“Because he outranks you and he can snap your neck with this many fingers,” she replied, holding up her thumb, forefinger and middle finger, curled as if to apply the neck pinch Vulcans were so famous for. “That good enough?”
Del rolled his eyes at this, but lowered his hand, bowed his head and closed his eyes. Ruth’s fingers were warm against his skin.
The inside of the Cajun’s head was a mess… as usual. Familiar anarchy. The same beautiful disaster it always had been. Ruth sighed like a weary housewife as she began to tidy the corners of the exquisite madhouse he called a brain.
The regrets each of them was too proud to utter collected like glittering cobwebs making the task even heavier than it had been the last time she’d attempted such a psychic housecleaning.
Del remained patient and subdued – if one could use such terms to describe the raging thunderstorm that was his wounded psyche.
Since it was impossible to hide or dissemble in this sort of psychic connection, Del and Ruth had no choice but to take one last look at each other’s naked souls. They reviewed what they had loved and hated most about their relationship at the speed of thought.
Why? The tendrils of Del’s broken heart demanded as they clustered around her. You still want me.
I wanted him more, she answered, sealing their bleeding as much as she could.
They shorthanded an argument about the truthfulness of this assertion. However in an environment where they could both see the exact, undisguised state of her complex collection of feelings, the debate seemed far more pointless than it would have outside their heads.
Although she was able to staunch the worst of the psychic hemorrhaging, there were still wounds far deeper than she trusted herself to go.
What am I s'posed to do now? they cried out to her. What are we s'posed to do now?
We could try being friends.
Surrounded by all their good memories and echoes of the tenderness they both still felt for each other, this suggestion sounded far less trite than it would have in real life.
“And don’t ask me if my Vulcan husband is going to let me be friends with a man I used to fuck,” Ruth said aloud, withdrawing gently but firmly from his mind.
“'Cause you t'ink as long as I able t' remember 'bout him snappin' my neck wit' three fingers, it gonna be okay?” Del asked sardonically. The contact left him feeling euphoric enough to almost smile… Almost. He was still sad. He still hurt, but was no longer in the agony he had been. He still ached, but it was perhaps an ache he could learn to live with.
“I want to be in your band too,” Ruth demanded abruptly.
This time Del did laugh. “I knowed I wasn’t gonna be able to keep you out fo' long, darlin’,” he said, shaking his head.
“…Which was actually my band first,” she pointed out, rapidly inserting the remaining programming tapes. “Although we didn’t call it a band…But that's just a technicality... And not that you have a name for it or anything… And it’s actually music from the Valley Collection anyway…”
“Shut up,” he said, sealing up the last of the repaired components as the AI rebooted noisily.
She gave him a sharp frown. “Why should I?”
He looked at her and was able to smile. “'Cause I tryin' to thank you, cher.”
Origination: U.S.S. Enterprise
NCC 1701
Medical
Dr. Jade Han - P-3038752/MED
Terminus: Starbase 7
Engineering
Ensign Robin Thomas - T-9181622/ENG
Dearest Robin,
To hell with the success or failure of our scientific mission or victory over any hostile alien vessels we may encounter or relieving the boredom that is now staring the crew in its collective face – I for one consider it a great accomplishment to have survived the Great Enterprise Cook-Off of Stardate 2249.3 and lived to tell the tale. Here is a rundown of the highlights:
* There were a brace of burned and/or cut fingers.* One contestant worked out a clever way around the Captain’s prohibition on open flames, but ended up singeing off his eyebrows.
* Six dishes were disqualified immediately because they were burned. This was not as spectacular, though, as the three dishes that exploded in the Galley … And those were not nearly as impressive as the one that spontaneously combusted while sitting on the Judges’ table.
* Less immediately dramatic was the case involving two officers working side by side. One was making a stew; the other a cake. They seemed to have somehow unknowingly exchanged one’s container of salt for the other’s container of sugar. So, a bit of a surprise for two different sets of judges…but not as big a surprise as the judge who bit into an omelet and found the Academy class ring one of the cooks had lost.
* The person (who, I might add, begged to have this contest authorized, with the stated intention of building his friend’s confidence and making him feel more at home on the Enterprise) did an impressive amount of swearing and sulking when that friend scored higher in two of the categories in which they were both entered than he did. His friend generously returned the favor when he was in turn beaten in two other categories. My personal belief is that only the fact the two of them tied for second place in the Top Chef standings saved us from a fist fight between these two devoted and oh-so-concerned colleagues.
* There was a surprise winner in the Soups category, who later protested his own victory (yes, really), saying that his girlfriend had somehow accidentally combined two of his entries so that his beet soup ended up being rather liberally spiked with the homemade vodka he had intended for the Beverages category. The judges were, frankly, by that point too drunk to care. However, after some pointed off stage discussion, the girlfriend – who is by the most remarkable of chances also the ship’s unofficial bookmaker (astonishing, isn't it?) – announced that she was contributing a large sum to a small orphanage in Iowa – which by another remarkable coincidence is a charity favored by our illustrious captain. Very mysterious…
* The top award went to the chef who also took the Best Dish trophy for his truly outstanding Martian Rice Balls… which, I know, sounds somewhat like awarding the Bocuse d’Or for boiling water. However, trust me, these were quite extra … On the other hand, knowing your and Commander Morgan’s senses of humor, I think I should perhaps avoid too many sentences that put the words “outstanding” or “extraordinary” in too close proximity to the word “balls”
I confess I may be a little oversensitive about possible misinterpretation since in an impromptu concession speech, one of our second place winners proclaimed that if the top honors were going to a fellow so charming he could get the whole ship to eat his balls and thank him for it, that man probably deserved a trophy.
The two of you may appreciate this wordplay more than those of us who happened to be sitting at the judges’ table in front of a large gathering of shipmates in the midst of enthusiastically consuming one of said Martian delicacies handed out by the newly crowned top chef at the very moment the runner-up’s remarks were made…
In summary, I believe despite the mayhem and indigestion it inspired, the cooking contest accomplished its main objectives:
1. to allow crewmembers to discover new skill sets… some of which unfortunately were never found;2. satisfying the crew that although the normal fare from the food processors may be boring, it is far less likely to explode than the alternative; and
3. making this ship into an eccentric but also familiar and welcoming place for a newcomer that he… or she… could be happy to call home.
POSTSCRIPT: Oh, did I mention that most of the food contained algae that compromised the ventilation intakes? Since this was more than a little by-the-seat-of-everyone's-pants (which is fitting, I suppose, since only men on starships get to wear pants; we females are forced into indecently short dresses, what someone might even call somewhat lengthy tunics... not that I'm one of them, since James is said to be a 'leg-man' - and we can just erase this part of the message can't we, dear? But I digress...) most of the organic matter used in the contest came from a small Federation outpost in the J12 system. Not the most modern of facilities. The algae, harmless to other organic matter (thank the gods or the entire ship would have suffered ptomaine or botulism or salmonella) nearly corroded the inner workings of the Life Support system. Thus, despite it being compatible with actual life forms, it came rather rudely close to killing us all. And I haven't mentioned who was responsible for discovering the mishap, or how it was discovered, nor how it was fixed, have I? Not that a galaxy-class mechanic such as yourself would be interested in those details - and yes, I can hear you screeching at me from here (grin). Well, then there’s something for my next message … if the Ladies’ Craft Fair is not in full swing by that time…
Yes, having barely survived the men’s competition, the women have demanded equal time… And when I say “demanded,” I actually mean “pouted”… and when I say “women” I actually mean one specific crewmember… whose name I would not dream of revealing… except to hint that her initials are Ruth Valley…
So, unless I fall victim to a freak knitting accident, see you on the other side, my dear!
Origination: U.S.S. Enterprise
NCC 1701
Bridge Command
Lt. Cmdr. T.Sulu - S-3419098/CMD
Terminus: U.S.S Hood
NCC 1707
Security and Operations
Lt. J.M.Paget - P-4038751/SEC
You and your damned guerilla-shrink ambushes!
By now I'm sure you've heard all about the cooking contest on the Enterprise. That disaster was YOUR idea (and don't get all clinical on me and tell me the choice was mine and what does that say about me). And the bitch of it is Del didn't even win.
Well, okay, he won in a couple of categories - and yeah, I did too - and yes, he's not holing up and drowning himself in bourbon and sapphire...
I have to tell you the cutest thing. When Jilla and I were discussing your idea, I said something about Del holing up and she figured out the meaning all by herself. She said, and I quote: "As a small mammal might crawl into a burrow to avoid a predator?" Isn't she just adorable?
So, okay, my idea worked (and don't for a minute think I'm letting you off the hook for suggesting it). And Del and Ruth seem to have worked out something that will keep them from exploding at each other every other hour - thank the Buddha. And nobody died or got maimed for life. And Del and I are even with the wins so there's nothing for him to crow about... but there's nothing for ME to crow about, and I won't forget THAT either.
And I really don't know why I'm bitching to you about this. Maybe it's that alleged touchy samurai pride that everyone seems to think I have (ruefully acknowledging that yeah, you're all right, you damned obnoxious know-it-alls).
Anyway, the contest is over, thank all the gods of all the galaxies. Judy Miller is screaming at all us clumsy men for the mess we made of her kitchens. The captain has his rose bushes, I have my botany lab and Judy has her kitchens. With Del trying to claim parts of Engineering, its a wonder anyone still considers this Kirk's ship - except, of course, for the rose bushes (grin).
There was a slight kerfuffle about the algae we had to use getting into the ventilation system because food kept exploding - don't ask me why. Daffy may have had something to do with that since she desperately wanted Pavel to win something and people kept going to the Haven-class chemist for ways to 'improve' the algae. But if so, she redeemed herself by discovering the problem - admittedly while trying to sabotage Del's oven, but I gave THAT a thought or two myself. So problem solved, Del's self-destruction averted - for the moment - and we're all set for a god-awful boring rest of the trip to the galactic center.
Oh, almost forgot. Del started a band with Sharon Intansah and Geoff Redford and Mrrall and Ruth asked to join and of course sucked Jilla into it too. They don't have a name yet. I'll keep you updated.
And you know, it occurs to me that if I'd just talked to Sherrie and Geoff beforehand, I might have been able to avoid the cooking contest altogether.
Jilla says hello. Hope you're well, babe. Miss you.
Sulu
“Okay, lissen up, y'all,” Del announced into the microphone in Rec Room 5. “‘Cause tonight, we have a nice surprise fo' ya – a special guest artist. Sparin' no expense, straight from th' rain-drenched forests o' Beta Antares by way o' the drug-soaked beaches of Berkley…”
“Hey…” his special guest protested from the audience as she lifted her guitar from its case.
“…Papa Christmas an' the Deltones are pleased to welcome the talents of the oh-so-fabulous Miss Ruth Valley. Give it up fo' her, y'all.”
In addition to the smattering of applause, there were a certain amount of whispered comments as the Science Officer’s wife headed for a stool next to her ex-lover.
“C’mon, girl,” Del welcomed her, patting the seat. “Let’s give ‘em somet'ing to talk 'bout.”
“Set tongues to 'wag,'" Ruth replied dryly, brazenly meeting the eyes of all who cared to meet hers as she took her place.
“An' now -- if you can bear t' hush your gossip fo' a few minutes -- Miss Molly an' the Moon Princesses would like to play you this li'l tune…”
Ruth raised an eyebrow. “Gotta work on a real name for this band…”
“What it look like I doin'?” Del retorted, faux- irritably as he began the guitar opening for the number.
“When you're down and troubled…”
Ruth’s voice was a sweet balm to his soul. "and you need a helping hand”
“And nothing, oh, nothing is going right,” he sang back to her.
“Close your eyes and think of me and soon I will be there
to brighten up even your darkest nights,” she said, then improvised on her own, “…but in a purely platonic way…”
Del shook his head as the audience laughed, but had to smile as they harmonized together,
“You just call out my name, and you know where ever I am
I'll come running to see you again.
Winter, spring, summer, or fall, all you have to do is call and I'll be there, yeah,
you've got a friend.”
Del didn’t know how well this “friend” stuff was going to work out. A big problem with it was that it didn’t cover all that they felt about each other…So being friends would always be at least in part a lie. On the other hand, though, being friends did salvage some of the best they had always felt about each other…and that was too good to be ignored.
“If the sky above you should turn dark and full of clouds
Del sang, then added an impromptu, “…to fix what sound like a terrible malfunction o' the ventilation system.”
and that old north wind should begin to blow,
keep your head together and call my name out loud.
Soon I will be knocking upon your door,”
“You just call out my name, and you know where ever I am
I'll come running to see you again, Ruth sang, taking verse, then adding, “…unless you’re in a particularly foul-tempered mood.”
“Winter, spring, summer, or fall, all you have to do is call and I'll be there,” Del replied, “…'less your husband is on my ass fo' screwin' up paperwork.”
“Hey, ain't it good to know that you've got a friend?” they sang together, their voices intertwining in the effortlessly beautiful way that their psyches rarely did.
“People can be so cold.
They'll hurt you and desert you. Well, they'll take your soul if you let them,
oh yeah, but don't you let them.”
“You just call out my name, and you know where ever I am
I'll come running to see you again.” The words, despite their levity were a serious promise.
“Winter, spring, summer, or fall, all you have to do is call and I'll be there, yeah,
you've got a friend. You've got a friend.
Oh, yeah, you've got a friend.”
They shared a smiled as their audience applauded.
Friendship was not all Del had wanted when he came to the ship, but it was definitely a prize worth the having.
You've Got A Friend as sung by Carole King
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