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.
Kirk pounded his fist on the desk triumphantly.
Finished! And two days early! Now what would be a suitable reward...
As if on cue, the door signal chirped, and he called, "Come!"
A young woman entered in a state of high excitement.
"Brat! You're just in time to celebrate. You won't believe what I came up with on the tactical assignment--"
"It's nice to see you so happy, Kirk. Try to remember this moment when your little dreams are crushed by *my* truly elegant solution. Ah, yes, I can feel that tactical medal in my hands already."
"You're the one who's dreaming, Brandt. I'm six points ahead of you, and come graduation, I will leave you in the dust."
"Tell me--do you really *believe* what you're saying, or is it just a pathetic attempt to save face?"
"You know, I'm becoming very concerned about your diminishing grasp of reality. I'm not sure you're even within shouting distance anymore."
"Keep pushing, Kirk, and I won't share this with you."
She held up a small vial and grinned wickedly.
"A present from my brother. Where's Mitchell?"
The top contenders for the Waverly Medal smirked at each other.
"Then it's just the two of us."
She waved the vial seductively and whispered the intoxicating syllables.
"You're *kidding*. Did your brother inherit a dilithium mine?"
"No, he's studying on Tycho 3. The stuff is cheaper than dirt there."
Happily remembering the sweet smell of Iowa homegrown, Kirk asked, "Did he send you any papers?"
She fished around in her pocket and retrieved a packet of Zig-zags.
"And instructions, too," she continued.
"On how to roll it into a cigarette and what to expect when you smoke it and..."
He stared at her in disbelief. "You've never done this?"
"No, of course not. Have you?"
"Hell, yes. Most of the farms around us grew it."
"Brandt, Brandt, Brandt." He shook his head patronizingly. "All that meant was that we couldn't buy it. So we'd go out in a field and harvest a little."
"Don't start with me, you little hypocrite. You and Mitchell were buying me beer when I was sixteen."
"All right. I won't question you about your criminal past."
"But I *will* question you about yours, which sounds surprisingly tame. Pot's not illegal on Kyros, is it?"
"No," she said defensively. "But it's one of the few things that won't grow there, so it's always been imported. Almost no one can afford it."
Like earth for the past three years. Ever since a mutant agrivirus had swarmed over the planet and wiped out the number three cash crop, this simple entertainment was well beyond the means of most people.
"Well, you're very lucky I'm here. And I'm honored to be your first."
Ignoring his implication, she asked, "Do you know how to make a cigarette and everything?"
Oh, this was going to be good.
"Brandt...you are in the hands of a master."
After sealing the door--"We don't have enough for the entire wing"--Kirk sat cross-legged on the floor and Brandt flopped down next to him. Her eyes wide with fascination, she watched as he crumbled the green-brown substance into the folded paper. Then he deftly curled it, licked the edge, and rolled it gently between his fingertips.
"Thank you. I used to be able to do it one-handed, but I'm a little out of practice. Now. Do you know how to toke?"
"You even know the slang! Oh, great! What's toking?"
Better and better. After nearly four years of one-upping each other, his sneered-upon farmboy upbringing was going to win him this one in a walk.
"Have you ever seen anybody smoke a joint?" he asked.
"A joint," she repeated carefully. "Yes, in a tri-vee."
"This--" He waved it under his nose and inhaled deeply. "--is not that manufactured shit. Those come pre-rolled and the THC is diluted. This is pure, uncut. If it doesn't choke you, it'll knock you right on your ass. So do it like this."
He pursed his lips and drew in a long stream of air, making a loud sucking noise. She mimicked him precisely.
"Good," he said. "You want to take in a lot of air with it. All right. Let's get stoned."
He lit up and took a couple of short puffs until the tip glowed brightly. Then he toked deeply and handed the joint to Brandt.
"Short puff," he said in a choked voice, releasing as little air as possible. "And hold it in."
She nodded and followed his instructions. They stared at each for a very long moment, until Kirk exhaled. Brandt carefully followed suit.
"Nothing came out!" she said in surprise.
"Good. That means you did it right. Let's go again."
After another long drag, he passed the joint to her and croaked, "Take a bigger hit this time."
He saw her mentally record the word 'hit' as she brought the joint to her lips.
"What I'm doing now is called bogarting."
"That's not what you're supposed to say."
"'Move that doobie, asshole.'"
"You can't be that uptight jerk who tutored me in warp physics." Rolling her eyes dramatically, she dropped her voice to a fearful whisper. "You're an evil double sent to undermine our noble Federation." Then she grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him furiously, shouting, "What have you done with the real Jim Kirk?!"
"Hands off, human trash," he ordered, pushing her away. "On my planet, doobie and asshole are words of power."
He sucked greedily on the joint.
"Move that doobie," she growled, "you fucking asshole!"
"Ah! You have been assimilated."
"Now, alien scum, I shall bogart," she announced imperiously.
She took a long drag, choked, and fell over coughing.
"Did your brother send you a roach clip?"
"A clip for holding the roach."
"The *roach*? That's disgusting."
"Well, it's not a roach yet. Don't worry, we'll come up with something."
He stubbed it out carefully in the small plate they'd been using as an ash receptacle. Then he stretched out on the floor and heaved an immense sigh of satisfaction.
"You know, my mother had a pair of earrings that were actually roach clips."
After a stunned beat, Brandt exploded with laughter at the idea of the self-possessed Mrs. Kirk feeling as giddy as she did at that moment. Soon both cadets were roaring exuberantly and trying to communicate by waving their hands and blurting, "you--" "wait--" "no--".
At last drawing an almost normal breath, Brandt wiped the tears from her eyes and said, "I think I'm stoned."
"*Stoned*? Lieutenant Brandt, it is my duty to inform you that you--" He twirled his finger in her direction. "--are ripped to the tits."
"That's--the funniest--thing--I've ever--heard!" Laughing uncontrollably again, she squeaked out the words. "You're very--pithy!"
'Pithy' was the funniest thing he'd ever heard and he was once more overcome by convulsions of glee.
Gasping for air, she pleaded, "Don't make me--laugh--anymore."
"Oh, shit," he chuckled. "I'm wrecked."
He pulled himself up and crossed the room, his usual purposeful stride replaced by a loose, weaving amble.
"Crashed and burned," he drawled.
"All systems inoperative," she sighed lethargically.
He started flipping through the piles of music disks.
After a long silence, he realized Brandt couldn't think of a reply. He looked over and saw her sprawled on the floor, quietly beating a syncopated rhythm with her hands. Smiling, he continued rearranging the disks.
"Find anything?" she asked after several minutes.
"How the hell do I know?" she snickered.
"What have you been doing over there?"
"I was just...enjoying playing with the disks."
With an embarrassed chuckle, he slipped a disk into the audio slot. A bluesy tune with a heavy backbeat started playing, and Brandt stood and swayed happily. Kirk sank into a nearby chair and watched her through slitted eyes.
She danced languidly, completely oblivious to her audience. Kirk found himself transfixed by the innocent pleasure that infused the impromptu choreography.
Then she began singing along, and Kirk started in surprise.
Brandt's enthusiastic but tuneless singing had earned her roommate the sympathy of the entire Academy.
"*When my man holds me*--It doesn't sound any different to me."
"Well, it sounds different to me."
They spent the next hour foraging through the music collection and singing her favorites.
Her eyes opened wide under the impact of a sudden revelation.
"Yes. *God*, yes. I think I'd kill for something to eat."
"The munchies." She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, that sounds right."
"Well, we're in luck. Mitchell's mother just sent peanut butter cookies."
Two minutes later, they were hunched over the desk, furiously stuffing their mouths with the fruits of Mrs. Mitchell's labors.
The harsh consonants of his name defeated her and she sprayed crumbs into his face.
After they recovered from a fit of giggling, she continued, "I was trying to say that I can't taste this."
He carefully covered his mouth before responding.
"I can. They're--" He swallowed. "--wonderful."
"No, I really can't taste them."
"Then why are you eating them?"
"There's texture." She bit into another cookie and chewed somberly. "Think about that. What if food had no flavor? Just texture. What would be your favorite food?"
"True... Do you have any ice cream?"
"But they're gone," she wailed and put her head down on the desk.
"We can get something from the synthesizer down the hall," he said cheerfully.
She raised her head and Kirk burst out laughing.
"Or we could just assemble more cookies from the crumbs on your face."
"You were lying in them!" he guffawed.
She ran into the bathroom and let out a shout of laughter. Then the door slid shut and Kirk waited.
"Brandt, what are you doing in there?"
"It just feels so *good*. What's this stuff in the green bottle?"
"It belongs to one of Mitchell's girlfriends."
"It's wonderful. Come in here."
He joined her and she pushed him down onto the toilet seat.
"I'm going to wash your face."
"Sit down," she ordered. Then she smiled sweetly. "You won't believe how good this feels. Now just relax."
He reluctantly obeyed, and a warm, moist washcloth was pressed gently against his forehead. Then it slid over the contours of his face, stroking carefully. He heard a splat of lotion and Brandt's satisfied "Mmmm," as she rubbed her palms together. Soft fingertips touched his face and began tracing little circles.
"Isn't this nice?" she whispered.
"Well...it *is*...refreshing."
More than refreshing. It was soothing. Hypnotic. She had a surprisingly delicate touch and was quite skillful at smoothing the creamy lather into captivating patterns. And she seemed perfectly content to do so.
As the spellbinding motion went on, he relaxed under her gentle ministrations, and soon he knew nothing but liquid fingers lapping gently against his face. Smiling lazily, he drifted...
...How much time had passed? How much longer... Even as he reached for the answers, the questions slipped away... and they weren't important anyway... he drifted...
What--? A wet cloth was wiping the residue from his face, drawing him back from his almost-slumber. Where--?
Oh, yes. Brandt. Washing his face.
Sharp, cool air grazed his wet skin and a rough towel patted him lightly. The startling sensations ordered his rambling thoughts, grounding him once more in reality.
"Thank you," he said, opening his eyes.
"Close your eyes. You'll love it."
Once again, fingertips danced upon his face, dabbing it with a different texture, smoother and more substantial. Substance, yes. That must be what kept him from floating away. He almost purred under the long strokes that massaged the delicious moisture into his thirsty skin. After the roughness of the fleet-issue towel, it was an astonishing luxury.
The entire experience was an unexpected splendor, a unique and priceless gift. And from Brandt, of all people. Given freely and generously, without the competitiveness and biting humor that usually defined their relationship. Just a simple and surprising manifestation of affection.
A sweet touch, a touch that wished to please, a touch like--like--
Forget it, Kirk, you're imagining it. Brandt is not trying to seduce you.
"All done," she said brightly. "Wasn't that great?"
He opened his eyes and saw her smiling enigmatically.
"Yes, wonderful. Thank you. Would you like me to, uh, do you?"
"Oh, right." He cleared his throat and stood briskly. "Well, come on. Let's smoke the rest of the joint."
They sat across from each other on the floor near his bed. He studied her carefully as she puffed on the joint, which was now less than an inch long.
Was it just the pot or had she been attractive before?
He remembered the day they met. How could he forget? The most notable associations of his Academy career all began within five minutes of each other on the first day of classes.
On his way to Warp Physics, he had been distracted by the attractive bottom of a female cadet ascending the steps of the science building. Attractive, hell--he was so bewitched that he walked right into an upperclassman.
"Drop and give me twenty, mister."
Kirk gritted his teeth and obeyed. Then he stood and faced the man whose mocking laughter would torment him for the next two years.
"I'm gonna be watching you, Kirk. You're on my shit list."
"Now get out of my sight, you worthless piece of warp-wash!"
Kirk hurried up the steps and made it to class with only seconds to spare. He slid into a seat next to a scrawny cadet who introduced herself as Suzanne Brandt. At that moment, the lecture began, so he shushed her and pulled his padd out of his study bag. She bristled and nudged the cadet on her other side, who snickered.
By the end of the week, Kirk realized two things. Brandt was the owner of the lovely bottom that had cost him twenty push-ups. And she was almost certainly going to flunk Warp Physics, along with her snickering friend, Gary Mitchell.
Funny how it all worked out. They conned him into tutoring them, and an unexpected friendship blossomed.
He looked over at Brandt, trying to see her with fresh eyes, wondering how he would react if he met her today.
For starters, she could no longer be described as scrawny. To use an expression of his mother's, the Brat had "filled out." And, yes, she was kind of pretty in an offbeat way. And although she was sitting on the charming asset that had resulted in his first encounter with Finnegan, he hadn't forgotten about it.
"Hey!" she interrupted his reverie. "If it's bogarting when you hog it, what is it when you don't take it when it's passed to you?"
"It's stupid, that's what it is."
He took a long drag and assessed the situation. Having just broken with Ruth, he was at loose ends, romantically speaking. And at the moment, he was feeling buzzed, loose, and more than just a little attracted to...
"Brat...how serious are you about Bill Ramirez?"
Brandt's current boyfriend was the Academy's star fullback and had a fist the size of a honeydew melon. He was also on a training assignment aboard the Carolina. Kirk smiled to himself. Out of sight, out of luck.
"Sit over here, next to me." He patted the floor. "I'll teach you how to shotgun."
"Now close your eyes--" Kirk said.
Brandt pulled back suspiciously.
"I don't trust you when you say 'close your eyes.'"
"I trusted you. And I'm just going to blow smoke into your mouth."
"It's considered a gentlemanly thing to do. It goes straight into your lungs and you won't get any of the harshness. Now close your eyes and open your mouth."
"Close your eyes," he repeated softly. Even at a whisper, he managed to inject just a hint of command into his voice. After a moment's hesitation, she obeyed.
She parted her lips--just barely--as Kirk took a deep drag off the joint.
He leaned toward her, put his mouth to hers, and was surprised by the taste of mint. He realized she must have rinsed her mouth in the bathroom and wished that his breath didn't smell of peanut butter and stale smoke. Her lips were soft and slightly moist, and, for a moment, he forgot to exhale. And when he did, when he quietly sighed into her mouth, her lips moved. Just a little.
What was *that*? Shotgunning, he told himself. Just shotgunning.
He pulled away slowly and watched as she opened her eyes.
Their fingertips brushed as he passed her the joint. Was it deliberate? And if so, on whose part?
He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and waited. He pictured her taking a long toke, moving toward him, leaning in and... He felt her hands on his shoulders.
Soft lips met his. After a heart-pounding moment, she exhaled gently. He drew in the smoky taste and waited for her to withdraw.
Her hands were still on his shoulders. Her lips were still touching his.
He put his hand under her chin and guided a slow, well-practiced motion as he challenged her mouth with his own. She leaned in, daring him onward, and finally, there was only one word for what they were doing.
Why did it feel like so much more?
Was it because he could still feel her soft touch against his cheek?
She pulled away slowly. It seemed like an eternity before he found the will to open his eyes and look at her. The pulse at the base of her throat was jumping wildly--from just *kissing*, he marveled. She moistened her lips, and his heart leapt into the same dance.
He put his hand at the back of her head and buried his fingers in her short-cropped curls. He felt her palm against his chest, not pushing him away, not resisting, just *there*. He drew her to himself carefully, ready to retreat at the first sign of "no," already planning the nervous back-pedaling, the forced laughter.
And it was all forgotten, rendered completely unnecessary, when their lips met.
Kissing. They were only kissing. But it felt like so much more, because it *was* so much more. It was the exhilerating thrill as they broke the self-imposed boundaries. It was the quick march of pounding hearts as they engaged each other in a battle of tickling tongues and stolen breath.
And if they were going to stop, it would have to be soon.
"To present this year's Diane Waverly Award for Excellence in Tactical Studies, we are honored to have with us a former recipient of the Waverly Medal. Ladies and gentlemen, from the class of 2253, Admiral James T. Kirk."
As Kirk approached the podium, he squinted into the bright sunlight, scanning the audience until he picked out Captain Brandt. She was applauding. Politely.
Biting back a smile, he began his prepared remarks.
"It still sticks in your craw, doesn't it, Brandt?"
Side by side, they strolled across the campus, having fulfilled the requisite obligations of highly regarded alumni.
"That I won the tactical medal."
"It wouldn't bother me if you had won it fairly."
He smiled as she launched into the argument he'd heard many times before.
"After the final exercise, I was ahead by two and half points. And if they hadn't decided that *cheating* on the Kobayashi Maru should be *rewarded*--"
She stopped and gripped his elbow.
"If you say, 'I changed the conditions of the test,' once more, so help me god, I'll break your arm."
Kirk glanced down at her hand. After a beat, she withdrew it. They'd been getting a little sloppy lately about their behavior while in uniform. And today--in full dress and in clear view of most of the admiralty--was not the time to push the outer edge of acceptable behavior.
"Will it make you feel better if I let you wear the medal?" he asked, as they resumed walking. "Only around the apartment, of course."
"No, thank you. But it would make me feel better if you gave it back and told Admiral deMarc to give it to the *real* winner."
He chuckled affectionately. "Your balloon never lands, does it?"
"Well, it does take a certain sick optimism to put up with you."
They turned into the main quad, postures straight and separated by a discreet distance. The very picture of correctness.
"Do you know what the Waverly Medal always reminds me of?" he asked.
"Hmm?" she responded absently.
They were approaching a fixture about which she was most sentimental--the bench on which "the kid" had reinforced his tutoring before every Warp Physics class. Had it really been over twenty years?
She turned to him with a puzzled frown. "What?"
"The Waverly Medal always makes me think of the first time we kissed."
"What does one have to do with the other?"
"The night I finished the last tactical exercise was the first time we kissed."
"JT, I may be two years older than you, but I'm not senile. We first kissed six years ago, in the Enterprise guest cabin."
"It was sixteen years ago, in my room."
She shot him an angry look and walked faster. He quickly caught up and stopped her.
"I'm very insulted, Jim. That you could confuse me with another woman like that. And if you're pretending, it's even worse."
"Well, now I'm insulted. I didn't think I was that forgettable."
"Jim, we never kissed when we were cadets. Unless you're thinking of that little peck on the cheek at graduation, and that doesn't count."
He went to the bench and sat down. With an exasperated huff, she joined him.
"You really don't remember, do you?" he asked incredulously.
"You came to my room with some pot that your brother had sent you--"
"Do you remember getting stoned? And eating Mitchell's peanut butter cookies?"
"Do you remember washing my face?"
She laughed suddenly. "Oh god! I'd forgotten that!"
"That's not all you've forgotten. Don't you remember what happened after that? We smoked some more, and I taught you how to shotgun--"
"I don't remember that," she said uncomfortably.
"Yes." He dropped his voice to a low tone that would carry no further than her ears. "After a few minutes, we were, well, getting carried away. So I put on some music, and you did this very sexy striptease. I couldn't believe it."
"Yes. You told me to get undressed and you plastered yourself to me for a full body grope. Then you lay down on my bed and asked me to go down on you."
"Yes, you did. So I obliged, and the next thing I knew, I was on my back and you were sitting on my face--"
"No, I'm not. We really went at it, Suzanne, sixty-nine like there was no tomorrow--God, I can't believe you don't remember this! You--"
"I swear! You gave me the most incredible blow job. I thought I was going to shatter into a million pieces--"
"This never happened--" She shook her head vehemently.
"Yes, it did! And right in the middle of it, Mitchell came in and when he saw you deep-throating--"
She leapt to her feet and growled ferociously, "You sealed the door! I remember you sealed the door because we didn't have enough pot for everyone! You *liar*!"
He burst out laughing. "Of course I'm lying! Do you think if we'd done anything like that I would have waited over ten years to get back in bed with you?"
"You--sick--perverted--! That is the vilest, most disgusting--"
"Sit down." He chuckled as he pulled her back onto the bench. "I apologize. I couldn't resist. And anyway, you deserved it--forgetting our first kiss. Unbelievable."
"Wait a minute. Are you telling me that we actually--?"
"Yes. Some of that really happened."
"How much? The truth this time."
"We kissed. That was all." Seeing her doubtful expression, he raised his hand in a pledge. "Honest."
"But that was it, right? Just kissing. Nothing happened."
"Yes, just kissing. But I wouldn't say that nothing happened."
It wasn't very often that he could make her blush and, as the color rose in her cheeks, he felt a deep satisfaction.
"Did you like it?" she asked quietly.
Longing to touch her and cursing military protocol, he said tenderly, "Very much."
"Why didn't you send him away?"
"What a rotten time to be a gentleman," she muttered.
"Yes, that's what I thought. So he came in and you ducked out--" He folded his arms and glared at her. "--leaving me to explain to my roommate how I happened to have a hard-on for our best friend. *And* what happened to his mother's peanut butter cookies."
"You told him?" She flushed a deep, embarrassed red.
"Don't worry. He was more concerned about the cookies than anything else. He just thought you and I were...funny."
Kirk bit back a smile as he remembered Gary howling incredulously, "You tried to score with the *Brat*?!"
"Why didn't you ever say anything to me?" she asked.
"Well, the next day, you were so 'business as usual' that I figured you just wanted to forget about it. Which apparently you'd already done."
"Sorry," she said contritely. "I'm sure it was wonderful. I wish I remembered it." She squeezed his hand discreetly. "Let's go home and I'll make it up to you."
They started toward the street.
"You know, Brat," he said after a few steps. "The dorm is empty."
She turned to him, blinking slowly.
"Are you suggesting that we should--"
"Go up to my old room and take care of some unfinished business? Yes. That's exactly what I'm suggesting."
"I thought we had decided to behave ourselves in uniform."
"I wasn't planning on staying in uniform."
A hint of a smile crept across her face and morphed into a wide grin. They turned in the direction of the dormitory.
"Suzanne, it would be wonderful if you would do those things."
"The things you would have done if Mitchell hadn't come back. The striptease. The blow job."
"Check your sensors, admiral. Sixteen years ago, I was--to use your own words--ripped to the tits. And under those circumstances, it is conceivable that I might exhibit the behavior of an Orion slave girl. However, we don't have any pot--"
Pointedly ignoring that remark, she repeated firmly, "We don't have any pot so--"
She stopped dead. "We *do* have--?"
With a modest smile, he explained, "Last time you were off-world, I went to Iowa for a couple of days. One of the neighbors is in a program to revive the crop. He gave me a little of his first harvest."
"You've been holding out on me."
"No. Just saving it for a special occasion...like graduation. So what do you say?"
"I say...Move that doobie, asshole."
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