(c) 1997 Jungle Kitty
Star Trek and its characters are the property of Paramount. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe on that ownership. The author's copyright applies only to the creative content and her original characters.
This story is one in a series about the relationship between James Kirk and Suzanne Brandt. The Kirk-Brandt Chronology lists all the stories, both in order of occurrence and order of creation.
Jonk asked for something like this. I can't help what I came up with. Blame me, not hir.
Personal Log, Stardate 593... no, 594... Oh, hell, I can't even calculate the damn stardate. I'll figure it out later.
I don't believe this. I don't believe I'm about to record this. Well, Gary Mitchell used to say, There are personal logs and *personal* logs. I guess this is one of the latter.
Mitchell. God, how he would laugh right now.
All right, Brandt, get on with it.
I've been on Starbase 2 for four days, along with the rest of my team. We were supposed to leave immediately aboard the Devereaux. But she's in spacedock and can barely make warp 1 after a nasty encounter with an ion storm. The base commander offered us a shuttlecraft, but the whole team's been jumpy since we completed the mission, and I wasn't sure we were up to twenty hours in a shuttle. Pretty close quarters for seven people who need a rest and time away from each other. So I told him we'd wait for the Devereaux's repairs to be completed.
Starbase 2. An outdated station orbiting a lifeless ball of ice. Warp-happy spacers who haven't been ashore in months have refused to offboard here. I can't say I blame them. Its recreational facilities are practically non-existent. A jogging track, a hamburger stand, a vegetarian restaurant, and a bar that serves liquor of questionable origin.
That's where I was last night, playing with a swizzle stick and nursing what was supposed to be a Manhattan. Huh. Queens, maybe. But definitely not Manhattan. Even the stem on the cherry was too limp to tie in a knot. The captain of an Andorian freighter was leering at me, and I was considering returning his interest, if it would get me on that freighter and off this godforsaken hunk of metal.
"G-guy b-buy you d-d-drink," the barbot stuttered as it slopped a glass of wine toward me.
"What guy?" I called as it wobbled away.
"Guy Zellen," said a voice behind me.
I turned and it was indeed Dr. Guy Zellen.
He sat down next to me and we spent the next half hour getting caught up. We hadn't seen each other in over two years. I asked him how his research was going, and he told me he had just completed the specs for a new universal translator. He was surprised to hear that I no longer command the Wozniak, and I told him that I work in Records now. He looked at me strangely, but he didn't say anything. We should really come up with a better cover story. No one in Special Ops could possibly be mistaken for a file clerk.
All right. I asked him how his wife was, and he told me they hadn't renewed their contract. I said I was sorry, and he said he wasn't.
Well! He started to look pretty good. But he always had. He's only a few inches taller than I am, well-built, with skin the color of caramel, and startling, emerald-green eyes. His hair is very dark, almost black. Smooth and soft-looking and loose around his shoulders. Suddenly Starbase 2 didn't seem quite so desolate.
Dinner--vegetarian--was awful, but the company was wonderful. I don't know how many times we switched languages--of course, his outnumbered mine by at least four to one, but he was very gracious about it. And I learned a few new insults. Klarhar i vuehren faupt ron torpjud! That's Vrellen for "Your cowardice is only exceeded by your ugliness and stupidity."
Afterwards, we walked around the station, talking. He has lovely manners, what used to be described as "old world." And his accent is unique, an intriguing blend of all the places he's been. He asked if he could call me Suzanne and he made my name sound almost musical. So I called him Guy and, just as he took my hand, I was paged. He said he would wait for me on the observation deck.
I checked in at the nearest comm, and it was Commodore Skorheim, wanting to know where my report was. I'd sent it off days ago, and I told him to clear the crap off his computer and find it. Not in those words, of course. But I was sure it was right there, and it was. He was embarrassed when he signed off, so he didn't say anything about insubordination. Good thing, too. I'm afraid I would've said something like, "Commodore, I'm bored and horny and I've got a live one here. And if I'm going to be called about shit like this, I might as well really work in Records."
I trotted off to the observation deck, and, other than Guy, there wasn't much to observe. At least half the view was obscured by that dismal rock we're orbiting. And the clearsteel was so old and discolored that it turned everything a sick shade of orange. But there were a few stars, and, when in doubt, go with a cliche.
I said, "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Guy put his arms around me and said, "Actually, I didn't think so until you arrived."
Corny, right? I loved it.
...I hate recording stuff like this...
He's a good kisser. A *very* good kisser. And it soon came down to "Your cubicle or mine?"
His was closer.
I loved having his arms around me, I loved the way he undressed me, I loved his smile when he first saw me naked. I loved the things he whispered in my ear, even though I didn't understand half of them or even recognize the languages. I loved laying beside him and rolling my leg over his hip. I loved his hair brushing my shoulder. I loved the taste of his mouth and the smell of his skin. I loved wanting him and knowing he wanted me. I loved the novelty and the newness of him. I loved surprising him. I loved the shape of his cock and the weight of his balls. I loved his hands on my ass as he entered me. I loved the way he held me when I climaxed, pressing me hard against his chest almost as if he felt it too. I loved the way he grunted when he came, I loved feeling him come inside of me. I loved the tenderness afterwards. I loved the kiss good-bye when he boarded a shuttle to Nestor this morning.
I hated that I stayed silent all through it.
I'm usually very vocal in bed. Moaning, gasping, and, of course, all the standard nonsense--"yes," "god," "that's good." And his name. That's my favorite. Saying his name. And I didn't, because I was afraid I'd say the wrong name.
Dammit. This was not supposed to happen. Jim and I are friends. Fuck-buddies. No entanglements or complications.
I should have caught on weeks ago, when Jim invaded my fantasies and banished everyone else. Or when he sent me flowers after the New Year's party, and I didn't throw them out until they were nothing but stems. Or last night, when I was sitting alone in that crummy bar and found I'd used a swizzle stick to trace his name on a cocktail napkin.
I'm in love.
Mitchell would bust a gut.
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