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If it's Thursday, it Must be Breakfast
Disclaimers: I don't own `em. Get a
life.
Rating: G
Summary: The guys have breakfast.
Notes: The timeline covers the original mission to
post ST:TMP, but
the guys aren't counting the missing months in their breakfasts. RL
has interfered with my list participation
and my writing, but I'm
hoping the new year will find my muses happy again. This isn't
beta'ed. All errors are mine.
Composition majors be warned; my
muses wanted form and content.
JB
*********
It began as an
order from their captain. "Talk to each other. Get
to know each other. Find some common ground. For the love of
Starfleet,
you're both scientists! Talk about scientific stuff.
Just don't argue."
And from that order grew a breakfast. In
an unspoken agreement that
occupying themselves with food would make the order easier. In the
realization that the beginning
of the day meant they had less to
reflect on than the end of the day. So they met, on Thursday at
07:30, and the only
thing they agreed on was the fruit cup.
Their captain gave up.
They did not. One thought of it as determination;
the other saw it
as stubbornness. Without any verbal agreement, they met the following
Thursday for breakfast. One had
grains. The other had eggs. But
they both had the fruit cup.
And so it continued. Almost always on Thursday. Almost
always for
breakfast. The weeks became months. And the arguments continued.
Sometimes heatedly; sometimes just because.
But their repertoire
grew. They did talk. They did listen. And they found common ground,
both slippery and surprising.
And one morning, the Doctor picked the
sour Deltan stars out of his fruit cup and gave them to the First
Officer.
And
so it continued. Almost always on Thursday. Almost always for
breakfast And one morning they added to their repertoire
and
said . . . nothing. One reading a letter. One reading the news.
Each to his own task, but comfortable with the company
and with the
silence. And that morning, the First Officer began refilling the
Doctor's coffee cup without being asked.
And
so it continued. Almost always on Thursday. Almost always for
breakfast. The months became years.
They ended
abruptly. One believing it was for the pursuit of logic;
the other believing it was out of fear of emotion. But the fates
were
not finished with them. And when forces beyond their control
reunited them, it was both logic and feeling that dictated
an
invitation be made.
So it began again. Almost always on Thursday. Almost always for
breakfast. Sometimes on
earth. Sometimes at Space dock.
Frequently on the ship. It was routine. It was necessary. It was
welcomed.
"Happy
anniversary, Doctor."
"Spock?"
"You are not aware of the significance of this date?"
"Of course I am,
Spock. Happy 10th Anniversary. That's a lot of
breakfasts."
"Five hundred and three to be exact."
"So, did
you get me anything?"
"No."
"You sentimental Vulcan, you."
"Are you aware this group of trainee's has
started a pool on us?"
"What now? Is this the `when is Captain Spock gonna demote Dr.
McCoy?' Or `when is he gonna
promote me'?"
"Neither. It is the `when are Capt. Spock and Dr. McCoy going to
declare their undying love for one
another.'"
"Oh lord. This is a naïve group of cadets, isn't it?"
"So it would appear."
"What's the line?"
"Currently,
5 to 2 on our return voyage, 10 to 1 during the term
break, 18 to 1 after you turn down your next promotion, and 25 to
1
at graduation."
"Maybe I should enter. I like the 25 to 1 odds."
"But you would lose."
"Not if we
declare our undying love at the Admiral's annual
commencement party."
"That would be dishonest, Leonard."
"Would
it?"
"It would, at the very least, be redundant."
For it had already happened. On a Thursday. At a breakfast.
Over
the fruit cup. Three years and 166 breakfasts ago. No one said they
didn't have breakfast other mornings, too.
[wink]
--fin--
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