ANATOMY OF AN EIGHT- SIDED NOTE BOOK
J/Tu
vanhunks
Rating: PG-13 [Just for the confusion]
Disclaimer: Paramount is Chief. Big deal.
Summary:
If you can make this out, you're king of the hill. Janeway and Tuvok do some
things together.
ANATOMY OF AN EIGHT-SIDED NOTE BOOK
Fold, fold. Standard size A4 paper folded two times to
create manageable eight smaller sides for easy handling. Naturally, pocket
sized, palm fitting clean paper to inspire storming brainstorming flurry of
thoughts, ideas, crap outpourings of dialogue and odd outlines for paltry plot
of story with the title:
"The day an Enterprising Ensign got Terse Tuvok,
the Vulky Vulcan to smile."
OR
"How not to embarrass your Captain while she's in
Security." (Working Titles).
Shit, got to end this darned headache soon. My fuzzy
brain just caused me to have yet another mishap. The fourth in two days. It's no
fun having your little finger caught in the bathroom door and seeing blood all
over the place. Or suffer the
ignominy of ignorance of having the physician tell me my dizzy spells of late
are really serious signs of vertigo. Hey!
Vert - he - go?
Hey, Helena! Fix my finger! Gotta type my story. Notes
are in shambles. They're all over my quarto note book, and listing from A - Z in
intricate patterns just did one thing: How the &*&^%$# ! Sorry about
that, but how in the name of clockwise swirling toilet water am I supposed to
get from A - Z when I've just
contorted my body into strange circus style positions to read the damned notes
since I, in my crazy mixed up fata morgana style mirage kind of hallucination
(after taking in bad medication and OD'd on codeine - only 10mg per tablet when
I figured I needed 50mg codeine) forgot the freakin' numbering? So much for
keeping a healthy mind in a healthy body. Suffice to say: I was drugged/drunk
when I essayed into this meaningless meandering of menopausal supra-indicatory
attempts at dangerous denial of encroaching age. In short: I'm getting too old
for this sort of thing. Mens sana...>
Jeez... Wait, so my fuzzy brain never remembered to
number my octagonal origami note pages.
So much...
Eight sides. I should be so happy. Now, where shall I
begin>
Twist, contort, this must be... the start. First side.
That's right, isn't it? Starts with: AND! No? Okay, here we go! Jeez, Helena!
You taped my pinkie too tightly! Another contortionist's trick. How to write
with pencil clamped in thumb. Transfer from octagonal origami note book to
ergonomic keyboard. Where's Querty? IN CASE OF ERGONOMIC ACCIDENT, refer to
[insert famous company] for compensation.
Coming up: my outline/story/bits'n'pieces of dialogue
in reasonably coherent composition as established from unnumbered sides. Comes
from sitting in public places like smokeless zoned restaurants with arms and
elbows everywhere in order to pen rambling thoughts while wiggling waitron
waits. I guessed which sides fitted where since I had only my nose to follow, or
something as banal as that manner of guidance into order.
NOW: I actually managed append a letter to each part.
Not a number, though. I'm still in earth cloud floating codeine espresso for
super-numerary efforts. Oh, my dear reader, you do it. Fit the pieces nicely,
will you? So my eight sided note book can have some semblance of
order and logic.
Here goes. Again. Finally.
Hey, I have a title!
"HOW NOT TO EMBARRASS THE CAPTAIN WHILE SHE'S IN
SECURITY".
***
/A/
Then there's a loud sound. Something fell.
Kathryn swings away from the fork, the cake catching in her hair. Sound
came from Tuvok's bedroom. Kathryn gets up and goes to investigate, while Tuvok
rises with difficulty and staggers after her.
She sees two figures skulking in the semi-dark. Lights! 100%!
"What in heaven's name are you doing here, Ensign Framesby? And
you! Ensign Cohort!"
The blustering starts. They wring their hands together. No, Framesby is
holding something and caressing it. They look beyond the Captain to Tuvok
standing behind her. Too close behind her. Framesby is quick with an answer.
"Er...Captain, I was photographing fairies. He said there'd be some
in his bedroom tonight."
"One, Kathryn."
"Fairies?"
"Aye, Captain!" Framesby and Cohort chorus.
*
/B/
"Then I *want* to be...more..."
Deeply husky whisper. She's drunk already. Kathryn touches his cheek
briefly. Her eyes close. She sees a fire, flames licking into the dark sky,
lighting it up, then shooting stars. She knows what he wants.
"Kathryn, I will not
offer any objection if you touch me again. If you wish to touch
me...here..."
Tuvok puts palm flat on his chest. Kathryn is curiously drawn to that
hand and fingers.
"Shall we...eat, first?" she purrs.
"First."
"After that, I shall touch you where *you* want."
"Want? No. Need? Yes."
"You are Vulcan, Tuvok. You don't nééd."
*
/C/
Tuvok's quarters.
"You wanted to see me, Commander Tuvok."
Tuvok's eyebrow lifts. Kathryn smiles. She takes a kind of devious
delight in calling him ''commander' when they're off duty.
"Captain," he addresses her equally formerly for off duty
officers in a congenial mood. That is, if Tuvok can be congenial. "On many
occasions you called me *friend*, *old friend*. Sometimes, in less formal moods I am *dearest* Tuvok."
Kathryn responds with her own raised eyebrow, more elegant than Tuvok's,
naturally.
"Is this a game, Tuvok?"
"Only in so far as it ensures the desired outcome,
Kathryn...T'resa..."
Last endearment is said in lowered register of voice denoting: passion.
"Which is?"
"The ending I know that I want."
*
/D/
Kathryn turns to face Tuvok. He wobbles slightly. She's outraged. Eyes
are shooting little fire balls.
"These two, Tuvok, broke into your quarters. Are you aware of that?
Who gave them the codes?"
Silence.
"A breach of Security, Tuvok."
Silence.
"Photographing fairies. If there ever were such things."
"Er...Captain," Framesby pipes up, "Commander Tuvok said
we could - "
Kathryn pokes Tuvok's chest. His frown turns into a mile. A smile! She's
seeing things...
"Tuvok?"
"Their insatiable curiosity was more than I could stand,
Kathryn."
Ensigns look angelic. There are innocent smiles and one fallen and
recovered imager. Doctor will be furious...
He's been had by same ensigns.
Kathryn's cheeks are flaming spots. She'd love to throttle innocent
enterprising meddling ensigns.
"And?"
"I told them if they wanted to see a fairy's tale, they should see
my quarters. Naturally, they were not supposed to believe me."
"Tuvok!"
*
/E/
"Oh. What you want..."
She walks in as he gestures in Tom-like chivalry. Table is set. Candles,
made-for-two birthday cake and...wine.
"Yes..."
Husky whisper. He stands close to her, but does not touch her. She feels
the aura. It is not necessary to feel his fingers against her temple. It's as if
it is already there, looking into her mind, heart, soul. Equally, she sees...
"I wish to share my...treat..."
She warms to his voice, the eyes that seem to smoulder. How can they?
He's Vulcan. Still, she's in his aura. That counts for more than ample reason to
smoulder.
"Tuvok?"
"Yes...Kathryn?"
"Will the cake be the only treat?"
Her voice mellows, eyes become soft, she stands even closer.
"You are my Captain, my friend... more, much more, if you
like..."
"This will throw the ship."
"I concur."
"If I get what I want..."
*
/F/
"Yessh, T'resa...?" Tuvok tries to appease ired Captain.
"Er...Captain, your cheeks are red."
"I - hic - concur."
"That's it! Your replicator rations are revoked for the next three
weeks."
"Mine?"
Tuvok.
"But, Captain!"
Meddling ensigns.
"All of you!"
Kathryn stalks away from Tuvok. His look could only be described as
registering mild...surprise. The ensigns follow her quickly. Framesby touches
her arm. She jerks it away.
"Er...Captain."
"What now?"
"You forgot your cake! Smile!"
Flash!
*
/G/
"I do not experience remorse."
"You will, soon. Just as soon as..."
She does not finish her sentence as she watches him raise his glass,
then throw back its contents. A single swallow.
He pours another. And another.
"Tuvok, that's your fifth glass..."
"Sheesh, Kathryn... you may be shhh-right."
"You're drunk."
"You are an angel, Kathryn. I shee your wings.
Gosshamerwingsssh..."
"You are not yourself. You're even...smiling?"
"Yesshhh. I'm drunk..." Tuvok pauses, his glass hovers in
mid-air. "Did you drop your glass, Kathryn?"
"You are out of it."
She hears a sound. She realises he must have heard it too.
"There's a sound."
"Have a ssshlice of fudge cake."
Dismiss the sound. Tuvok is all inebriation.
"Oh, okay."
Tuvok's hand trembles as he lifts the fork balancing fudge cake to
Kathryn's mouth.
*
/H/
"I know that I do not *want* you to leave. If that constitutes a
need, then indeed, I do nééd."
"Then I'll stay. Not only to enjoy your birthday cake," she
purrs invitingly. Her hand covers his. Again, a feeling that she's on fire, a
fire ignited by his own flames. She feels him stiffen first, getting quickly
used to her intrusion, then he expels a hissing sound.
"Stay..."
"Good." She pulls
Tuvok to the table. They sit down. Two flutes. Fine. Shiny glasses in Waterford
crystal. She thinks he's done some
homework. The wine is...
"Autumn Harvest Pinotage for you, Kathryn..."
She gives a nod and smiles.
"...while I shall oblige you by drinking...Romulan ale combined
with white lightning."
She arches an elegant brow. She's heard of twentieth century home brewed
illegal whiskey. The meanest S.O.B was felled by it. She'd like to see Tuvok
become unhinged.
"You may be sorry, Tuvok," she says as she watches him pour.
*
*********
So, eventually, after much folding and unfolding and trying to find the
point of origin, I put the pieces together and hammered the ergonomic keyboard
in tune with the throbbing of the pounding in my head. My brain was mush, tossed
around inside my skull like jello. Did I do it right?
No matter that I took another 50mg codeine, it slowed down my reflexes,
and when I typed the last word, I was lying of the floor. How did I get there?
My pinkie is aching and throbs in tandem with headache. I think I have vertigo.
I'm lying on the carpet and I'm falling. Go figure.
Hey, Ronnie, you drunk, or something?
I say: or something.
The goody blue secretary chair's casters are still spinning. I right the
damned thing again and sit down. Story complete after tearing apart eight-sided
note book to see how the sides matched.
"You talking again, Ronnie?"
"If I were, I wasn't talking to you, that's for sure."
**
Confusing, eh?
If you'd like to play the home game of interactive J/Tu adventure, just
figure which parts went where. If you're likely to write a response *and* play
the home game, would you, dear reader, allow some spoiler space?
1 -
2 -
3 -
4 -
5 -
6 -
7 -
8 -
story complete.
*
End
Warning: don't write when you have a headache.