Encore!

OUT OF PRINT

First Published in March 1999
206 pages
Seven K/S stories
Color cover by Alison Fiddler
Three pieces interior art by: G. Mills, Claudia, clm
Poetry by Robin Hood

From Night Lessons by Elizabeth Scott

Spock lingered over the tawny globes, laving the puckered aperture with long, slow laps of his tongue. An answering moan filtered down from above assuring him that his precipitous decision to come here was appreciated. Unable to tolerate one more day of absence from Kirk, he'd taken an early afternoon shuttle from the Terran moonbase to steal three hours with his lover. And he intended to savor each nuance of the erotic dance they were performing, for this one encounter must deliver memories sufficient to carry him through the rest of the year's training assignment.

Kirk squirmed. "Spock.” The Vulcan found a small silver tube thrust impatiently toward him.

He took it and laid it aside on the bed. "Do not deny me this," he growled, voice rough with passion.

"Shit, Spock, I'm going crazy here. I need to be fucked. Now!"

With a sigh, the Vulcan relinquished his grasp on the creamy buttocks. His tempestuous human had never delighted in the gentle, languorous loving Spock found so gratifying.

Spock uncapped the tube and applied a generous amount of the contents to his own hard sex and then to the small, pouting orifice before him. After all, Kirk had suffered through the same prolonged period of abstinence. Undoubtedly, the passionate human would orgasm quickly given what he wanted. And with his initial hunger sated, hopefully Kirk would be more amenable to the slow, meticulous loving Spock craved.

Kirk wriggled eager hips toward him, raised his legs and settled each onto a spare shoulder. Seeing his lover thus displayed, any thought to maintain control fled the Vulcan. With a groan he moved forward, positioned his throbbing cock against the ridiculously small opening.

At that moment the door buzzer blared.

Kirk's legs flopped from his lover's shoulders. "Shit."

"There is no need to answer," Spock stated reasonably, controlling the overwhelming urge to inflict mayhem upon the unwary intruder on the other side of the door.

"If I don't, he'll just use his key," Kirk called back over his shoulder. He had already vacated the bed and was shrugging into a robe. "Be there in a minute," he yelled.

From Phoenix Rising by Tish

The Vulcan stood motionless in the enveloping darkness of his captain’s quarters, watching him sleep, mesmerised by the steady rhythm of his breathing, drawing strength and comfort from the fact that…he…still…lived.

Kirk was alive!

For one horror-filled moment Spock had thought he had killed him. Even now the memory was too painful to bear for more than an instant.

Pressing himself against the steadying solidity of the bulkhead, he willed himself to calm; he could hear his breathing echoing in the silent room, was afraid the sound would awaken his captain. His heartbeat, too, seemed inordinately loud as it beat a deafening tattoo in his ears although, logically, he knew it could not possibly be heard. His hands trembled, not only with emotional reaction to the day’s events, but with the fear that his inexcusable intrusion into another’s quarters would be discovered. He had no right to be here; it did not matter that he had been drawn by powers beyond his control, nor that his continuing existence lay in the need to see for himself that Jim Kirk lived.

He envied Kirk his sleep, sprawled naked on his back on the bunk, covers pushed down to his waist, one hand curled on the pillow. Faint light from the monitors cast an ethereal glow on the peacefully sleeping features.

Peace: how elusive that seemed to the troubled Vulcan, how enviably distant.

He had experienced so much in the last few hours, from the madness of Pon Farr through soul-crushing grief to overwhelming joy. The roller coaster of emotions, all so alien to him, had left him drained and shaken. Meditation was beyond him, sleep an eternity away. He could draw solace only from watching the one who slept and knowing that he lived.

He knew what he needed most was time. Time to come to terms with what had happened, time to begin to heal the emotional scars and to begin to accept that which could not be changed.

He no longer belonged to Vulcan.

Today, in what should have been his Bonding and marriage to T’Pring, a culmination of his yearning for acceptance as a true Vulcan, she had rejected him. Not for one moment had he considered that outcome. He had seen his Bonding as an inevitable part of his transition into Vulcan manhood.

A part of him could see, now, the seeds of rejection and withdrawal had been sown years before. He had done nothing to encourage her over the years, had rarely visited Vulcan and had only corresponded when propriety decreed it should be so. Also, if he were being honest with himself, her rejection was somewhat of a relief. He did not want a wife and was glad to be rid of her at last. It had been relatively easy, therefore, to accept her rejection.

What he could not accept was her choice of champion in the Challenge.

Why Jim Kirk?

From Save a Prayer by C. Liane de Maler

How much could change in a year.

One simple year.

He snorted and became aware of the cooling water around him as it lapped up against his dry neck. He rinsed himself quickly and than lay down on his bed, dressed in a sanitarium-owned bathrobe. With his arms locked behind his head he looked up at the ceiling where his eyes followed the ever shifting patterns of flickering shadows, caused by the swaying tress before his window. He did this often to be able to fall asleep, because his thoughts were difficult to switch off, especially in the evening. It became more difficult with time passing and his strengthening physical power. And, as often before, this night again sleep wouldn't come and his thoughts were inevitably backtracking to where he had left off.

Yes, Spock, how much can change in one short, simple year.

He had allowed a friend to mean more than a simple buddy. Spock hadn't needed six months to make him throw all his rules overboard. But where their relationship was headed he didn't know yet.

He wasn't sure that it should even head anywhere.

Suddenly everything had seemed so complicated.

More from confusion than calculation he had decided that he wouldn't force a decision this time—so uncharacteristic for him—and let it happen.

They had so much time. Hadn't they? He had thought so.

It was now three months since he had seen his friends last. Almost three months, he corrected himself. Sometimes he felt like a prisoner counting down the days, scored with chalk on the wall of his cell: eleven weeks, one day and an odd number of hours.

He had been taken to sickbay, and Bones' worried-looking blue eyes hovered over him. After that, there was only burning in endless fever dreams, falling, twisting, thoughts shredded, flesh torn from charred bones. But through the pain and the flames one thing was certain: two cool hands that closed around his. He had clung to them like a safety line, convinced that only their solid security could save him from crashing into a hellish inferno.

Spock's hands, he was sure of it.

When he finally woke up again after six weeks, there was nobody there he knew. He didn't like to remember the first confusion of his senses and his disordered thinking. Why had he been left alone? For four weeks his friends had stayed by his side, he was told, after that Starfleet had forced them to return to the Enterprise.

The worst thing was that the Enterprise had been ordered on a mission to the Orion Neutral Zone. Since that time there had been no private contact with the ship. Starfleet had attempted to maintain silence on the mission for security's sake, and that he was told anything at all was only due to Jim's considerable persistence. The doctors had great powers of persuasion for Starfleet to take the damn "no excitement" prescription so seriously. As if no news didn't excite him as well.

But it was possible that Admiral Komack knew exactly what he was doing to Jim with this lack of communications—and did it for that reason. Komack and he had never gotten along, mainly due to simple spontaneous mutual dislike, which his superior—in contrast to himself—didn't try to hide.

And so Jim waited.

Waited daily for news and his impatience became uneasiness.

Beautiful as the sanitarium was, nice as the personnel were, he could not wait to get back to his ship, to his life, and to his friends.

But actually he wasn't quite healthy again, he had to concede unwillingly. For in this moment it started again. He pressed down on his belly with the back of his hand where the obtrusive throbbing all too distinctly reminded him of the long way he possibly still had to go.

From Together in the Afternoon by Robin Hood

When Kirk had dropped the meteor of dissolution into the air between them, Spock had been unable to formulate coherent thought, let alone lucid speech. He’d merely nodded as if unaffected and left Kirk’s office in a mental blur. He was oblivious to how upset the human he’d left behind had been. All the Vulcan could see was a need to crawl into a hole, to hide until the pain subsided. He fought a desire to tear the universe apart with his bare hands, to rip it into pieces with his teeth, swallow the agony and make it disappear. He knew now that pain could drive one crazy.

Somehow he found his way to his apartment, sealed the door with a hard blow as if to weld his world closed around him, and collapsed on the couch. His mind whirled, fog filling the spaces between memory as the past thirty years of his life raced across his inner vision, chased by demonic devils of his own making.

An image formed in his mind: James Kirk. James Kirk was retiring. Why had he never considered or ever faced that possibility? He’d simply envisioned that Kirk would die in harness, perhaps promoted ever downward but still useful to the ‘Fleet. The Vulcan had assumed that anything less would kill the human. Spock, of course, had planned to remain by his friend’s side throughout the journey, guiding and helping whenever possible, offering anything he could supply that the human might possibly want.

But retirement! Leaving Starfleet! For what? Would he really leave his Vulcan friend? Spock had years of duty life before him. He knew the problem: he’d stupidly forgotten their life spans, Vulcans’ being so much longer than humans’.

Fingers clenched on his lap, pain crawled over his body, the video of their friendship continued unabated, stabbing with gentle laughter, practical jokes, danger, worry and friendship, slashing at his soul with their poignant fingers.

Kirk in his youth, breathtaking in his handsomeness, no, in his beauty—for even his detractors would call it that—the human was truly beautiful, standing, hands crossed on his muscular chest, feet wide apart facing yet another challenge. Beautiful then, more than handsome now, hair grayed, body stockier, but even with time-darkened eyes, the glint from before still sparked on the expressive face. And Spock, an ever-vigilant Kirk watcher, knew each and every aspect of that face.

Spock had spent the last thirty years never noticing the change. He saw his friend, as always, James Kirk. Older, younger, fatter, thinner, wounded or well: James Kirk. Certainly he’d known how unhappy Kirk had been when he had first accepted a desk promotion, but that terrible time had flown quickly by and for many years once again they had worked on the ship in harness, together searching the universe for a single sentient molecule.

And when Kirk had once again requested a dirt-side position, Spock had quickly agreed that it was time for them both to settle. Soon the human would have had problems passing the rigorous physical required to retain command of a starship. The human had known, although they had never spoken openly of it, that it was time. And Spock had concurred with his decision and let it be known in the upper echelons that he, too, would accept a planet-side position. His reasons were left unvoiced.

Spock had been happy on Earth, having adjusted to the climate years before, and never once missing his native planet. His parents visited often. He had his own life. He was as happy as he could imagine. No, not imagine, for he had a very active imagination, more than he wished to acknowledge. It had haunted him his entire life.

Now he couldn’t imagine life continuing without Kirk.

From The Lost Decade by Audrey Baker

Spock woke, as he always did, early. He got up, washed and dressed and brushed his hair into its usual meticulous order. He gave himself his usual keen glance of inspection in his mirror, a glance not of vanity for he didn't look at his gaunt face except to see it was clean. He considered his appearance suitably immaculate to face the world and tugging his jersey down behind (it had a tendency to catch on his belt) he headed for the door and, ultimately, his breakfast.

As usual he was first—he preferred to be. He didn't recognise the wardroom steward who served him, but he wasn't perturbed by the fact. The ordering of the duty watches of stewards had nothing to do with him. He finished his breakfast and went to the nearby officers' heads, then came out after a suitable interval and went to the bridge.

It was here he got his first shock, and it was a big one.

It wasn't often that any of the daytime watch were already on duty when he arrived, and he certainly didn't recognise anyone on the bridge, but what made him stop short and stare was the figure in the captain's chair. The man was undoubtedly a commodore by his insignia, but he wasn't Kirk. And Kirk had been the only commodore aboard, last night.

Spock moved tentatively forward. The stranger turned his head and saw him.

"Good morning, Spock. Early as usual.” The man spoke quite naturally, as if he knew the Vulcan. He had the advantage here. Spock had never seen him before in his life. He blinked in utter bewilderment.

"Sir?"

"That signal from Command about the Rigellian ships—" the strange man said, and launched into a completely business discussion. Spock stood by, feeling more and more at a loss. He hadn't the faintest clue what the man was on about. WHAT signal, for goodness sake, and WHAT Rigellian ships? He cast a frigid glance over his shoulder at the Communications Officer, who met his look with complete surprise. And he didn't know HIM either, come to think of it. What was going on?

The strange commodore was talking exactly as if he commanded the ship. Spock said nothing for a while, then finally said, "Excuse me, sir, but could you enlighten me as to when you came aboard?"

It was the commodore's turn to look astonished. "What an extraordinary question!"

"I am afraid I do not know you, sir," Spock said apologetically. "Commodore Kirk said nothing about your coming aboard."

"Kirk?" repeated the stranger with evidently increased bewilderment. "KIRK? Mister Spock, are you sure you're feeling quite well?"

Spock began to wonder. He said aloud, "Perfectly, sir, thank you. I am just a little—surprised—to find you here."

"Don't see that you should be," the stranger said. "I've been here for several months now."

Spock stared. "Several months…?”

"Certainly. I took over the Constellation on her last trip. Surely you remember?"

"No, sir, I am afraid I do not…" and Spock's voice trailed away. He swallowed. "Then where, might I inquire, is Commodore Kirk?"

The stranger looked both startled and even a little frightened. He hit a button on the arm of his chair. "Sickbay. Ah, Doctor, this is the Commodore. Would you come up to the bridge right away? Mister Spock is unwell."

Spock was beginning to agree with that diagnosis. He stood there trying to collect his shattered wits.

“Indeed, sir, I do not understand," he said almost pathetically. His mind was scrabbling around like a rat in a cage. Where? How? Why? When?

The stranger looked at him pityingly. "Don't worry, Mister Spock, the doctor will see to you. It's probably delayed shock."

Delayed shock? For what? Spock's mind reeled even more.

The lift doors swooshed open and Bones McCoy bustled onto the bridge. Spock was so relieved to see him he almost fell on his neck.

"Doctor!" he said with unusual pleasure.

"Well, he knows you all right," said the stranger in Kirk's chair.

"Doesn't he know you? " asked McCoy, frowning a little.

"No. He asked me where poor Kirk was a minute ago. Said he didn't know me. Couldn't remember anything."

Spock only heard two words in that speech. Poor Kirk. Poor Kirk? He realised what people meant when they said their hearts stood still. His own checked with a jolt, then started running again at twice its normal speed. His face drained of colour. McCoy was running a tricorder over him. He stiffened and said, "Doctor—where is Commodore Kirk?"

McCoy looked up at the stranger and they shook their heads at one another.

"He doesn't remember a goddamn thing," said the stranger. "Poor devil!"

From Avalon by Fiona James

What Kirk had not told McCoy was that Spock had certain reservations about the way Avalon was being developed, reservations he had expressed to Kirk with a forcefulness that surprised the human.

"Jim, I agree it is admirable that so much is being done to preserve vanishing species, but what danger does this present to the native species of the planet? By the time the native plants evolve enough to move further from the water, by the time the native lungfish begin to crawl up the shore, will there be any place on the entire planet where there is room for them? Will the planet not have been completely taken over by these more-evolved alien creatures, to say nothing of the vegetation that has been planted there to give the incomers—one might almost say invaders—an environment similar to their home one?"

"Spock, there aren't any native lungfish yet."

"But there may be, in two or three million years. It does appear to be an inevitable consequence of evolution, that life does move out of the water onto dry land. The handful of intelligent water-dwelling species that we know of live on worlds where there is virtually no dry land, and their technology is limited because of that."

"On the other hand, some species of fish don’t ever change. Look at—oh, sharks," Kirk protested.

"Sharks are carnivores, successful in their environment. It is of no advantage to them to evolve. The creatures that mutate and produce the changes that give them a better chance of survival are usually prey species," Spock said, almost severely. "The carnivores may follow, or else new ones will develop—"

"All right, I grant you that," Kirk interrupted. "On the other hand, although they're doing fine right now, do we have any guarantee that the immigrant plants and animals will be able to survive there in the long run? The sun seems to be a straightforward G-type, but can we be sure its radiation is exactly the same as that of the different Federation suns the immigrants evolved under?"

"No," Spock said, almost sadly. "There is no indication of it, but neither is there any guarantee. It would be equally unfortunately if these 'immigrant' animals were to die out or evolve from their present form over the next few centuries because of a difference in solar radiation."

"Meanwhile," Kirk changed the subject, "don't you think it's time for bed?"

Spock agreed with an alacrity that a few months ago would have amused Kirk, but now gave him a warm feeling of satisfaction that his lover had become almost as sex-hungry as Kirk himself was.

Kirk, sitting alone in his quarters after his conversation with McCoy—Spock was on late shift—sighed in reminiscence as he allowed his mind to replay that night.

They had become comfortable enough with their relationship by then to undress and shower without trying to keep their bodies plastered together every moment of the time, if only because they had learned by then that they got to the more interesting aspects of their pairing more quickly if they did it separately. Spock inevitably had been ready first, and when Kirk, still slightly damp (having skimped drying himself because he knew Spock was ready), stepped into the sleeping area, the Vulcan was already in bed. Kirk wasted no time in joining him.

Spock closed his arms around him, ignoring the residual dampness, and their mouths met, gently at first, then with increasing passion. Kirk sensed instantly that Spock wanted to take control of this interlude, and he relaxed completely, letting his head drop back as Spock nibbled at his neck. The light, teasing kisses drifted down to a puckering nipple and Spock's lips closed over it, sucking gently at first then biting just hard enough to hurt.

Kirk gasped, "Yesss!" as Spock's mouth moved to the other nipple, and his hands pressed the Vulcan's head closer.

Spock took his time, licking and nibbling his way slowly—oh, so slowly—down Kirk's chest, tongue dipping repeatedly into his navel for what seemed a very long time, while Kirk's penis filled until it was almost painful, reaching it seemed desperately towards the Vulcan's mouth.

Spock lifted his head and looked down at the swollen organ.

"Is that for me?" he asked teasingly.

"God, Spock, you know it is!" Kirk gasped. Spock smiled, then carried on with his slow exploration of Kirk's body, hands now stroking lightly over Kirk's thighs but deliberately avoiding the hungry penis.

He began to work his way up towards Kirk's chest again and the human moaned in frustration as his bondmate moved to kneel across his chest. The green-tinged Vulcan penis was fully erect too, and Spock rubbed it lightly across Kirk's lips. Kirk instantly opened his mouth and sucked in the head of the organ. He ran his tongue across it, lingering at the tiny slit for some moments before caressing the ridges, then sucking harder. Spock grunted and pushed further into the accepting mouth, thrusting firmly but gently, deeper and deeper into the human's throat. The first time they had done this Kirk had had problems with breathing, but now he knew how to catch a quick breath between thrusts, and they could continue making love like this for a while before lack of oxygen became any sort of problem.

He had had trouble too at first with the gag reflex, but now he loved the feel of Spock's velvet-firm penis stroking against his throat. It was so good….

Spock's hands were stroking his head, and he then felt the touch of his bondmate's mind intensifying. He loved it when Spock did that, started off with the purely physical then added the mental stimulation.

Spock pulled out of Kirk's mouth, knowing that his human needed a few deep breaths, and reached back and gripped Kirk's penis, pressing it in a way that reduced the human's excitement so that he would not come too quickly, then leaned down and touched his lips to Kirk's, pushing his tongue into his bondmate's mouth, exploring it thoroughly while Kirk's tongue caressed his mate's.

It was Kirk who pulled away. "Put your cock in my mouth again," he gasped. "Fuck my mouth, Spock. Fuck my throat…." His voice cut off as Spock obliged, thrusting deep into the welcoming throat. In his mind he could feel Spock's growing excitement, knew he was about to come…and Spock pulled back in the final instant so that his spurting semen filled Kirk's mouth, letting the human taste it, savour it….

They remained still for some minutes while Kirk licked the softening penis gently before allowing it to slip from his mouth. Spock bent to kiss Kirk again, tasting himself on the human's tongue, then with frustrating deliberation he began to nibble again at Kirk's nipples, exerting just enough strength that he could hold his bondmate down.

It always excited Kirk when Spock used his strength like that, and his hips writhed uncontrollably as he struggled to find something—anything—to rub his penis against, desperate now for release.

Spock raised his head, a question in his eyes. Do you want to finish now?

"Yes," he gasped.

Spock, who had clearly prepared himself for penetration while Kirk was still in the shower, immediately moved to straddle Kirk's hips, and guiding his mate's penis with one hand sank smoothly down on it. As his buttocks came to rest on Kirk's thighs, he tightened his muscles in a way Kirk had often wished he could manage, providing a stimulus that made Kirk cry out even while Spock rolled them over so that he lay under the human. Kirk pulled out and thrust and thrust and thrust and came fiercely with one last, hard-held THRUST….

They lay entwined while the human penis softened and eventually slipped out of its warm haven even as they drifted into sleep.

From Transfer of Affection by Vivian Gates

Zzzt. Zzzzzt. Zzzzt.

Captain Kirk lifted his head from his hand and rubbed absently at his temple as his mind identified the sound. The door. Probably Dr. McCoy. For the moment, he toyed with the idea of pretending he wasn't in, or was asleep. He really was in no mood for the good doctor's company, for McCoy's idea of a good time. Still, he wasn't in the mood for much of anything, and McCoy would just come back later. Might as well get it over with now.

"Come," he called, forcing himself to lean back in his chair and take on the air of a man who was at ease and happy. The door swooshed open and McCoy stepped over the threshold with that high step that older officers used when coming into rooms, left over from days when starships still had connection sills to support airlock baffles between the sections of a starship. McCoy's hands were full, his face friendly, his mouth going wide in a grin.

"You look relaxed," the doctor said as he slid the bottle which had been in one hand onto the table, and the glasses which had been in the other hand joined it. "Ready for some company?" The doctor moved the glasses apart and lifted the bottle. His fingers went to work on the stubborn cap.

McCoy's hands were older than his face, Kirk realized, looking up at the doctor's face to compare. The doctor was starting to show his age. It made Kirk feel older, too, but he pushed off that depressing thought and forced himself to show an animated exterior.

"That looks like Saurian brandy," Kirk said in an interested tone.

"Well, it's not. Reevian wine, in a brandy bottle. The Reevians are big on recycling. Sure plays hell at the customs counter, though. But it was worth it. This is last year's vintage, and last year was a very good year."

Kirk grinned. "It was, wasn't it?" It had been for him, anyway. The missions had been exciting, and Kirk and the Enterprise had made quite a reputation for themselves of late. There had been several memorable shore leaves, too. Not that the past year had been perfect. There were one or two little problems which had been driving Kirk crazy lately. Nothing he could tell McCoy about, even though the doctor qualified as one of his best friends.

The bottle opened with a low pop and a happy hiss echoed by McCoy's sound of triumph. The doctor poured the liquid into the glasses with a flourish, capped the bottle again, and set it down so that he could lift up the nearest glass.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" McCoy said, holding the glass up to the light.

Kirk had to agree. "It is," he said. The wine looked like an Iowa sunset, yellow streaked with orange, and with a hint of blue or purple in the depths. "What exactly is the reason for this?" He reached out for the other glass. "Are we celebrating something?"

"Besides the end of a very long day?" McCoy shook his head. "No, this is just a nice drink with a good friend." He took a sip. "Ah! Now that is a very fine thing for a man to slide over his tongue."

"You know, Bones, you're not a very good liar. You have something on your mind." Kirk sipped his own drink, waiting for the shivery tingle of it to subside so that he could get some idea of the flavor of the drink.

"I just came for a drink. My theory is, you have a guilty conscience. If you had nothing on your mind, you would have believed me. But now that you mention it, I have noticed that you've been a little preoccupied lately. I bet you do have something troubling you that you want to talk over with your friendly country doctor."

"Do I? What's that?" Kirk asked lightly, smiling at his friend.

"How the hell would I know?" McCoy said with mock irascibility. "You're the one with the problem you need to talk about."

"How many glasses of that stuff did you have before you decided to come for a visit?" Kirk asked. He forced himself to take a sip, letting the sour-sweetness linger on his tongue as his mind tried to put a name to the flavor. It tasted of alien planets, the tang was one which no Earth fruit had ever produced. It was good, but not the sort of drink one wanted to make part of a steady diet.

"I had one," McCoy held up a finger. "Only one. Yes, I admit I did have to have a bit of liquid courage to get off my butt and come over here. Contrary to popular opinion, I don't always poke my nose into other folk's business."

"Just mine?" Kirk looked at McCoy seriously. "Any particular reason?"

"Keeping the captain alive and kicking is part of the job description. You ever read the summary of a CMO's duties? There's a section on taking care of the crew and all on board, and you'd think that generalization would cover the captain, too. But right after that is a paragraph charging that specific efforts be taken to safeguard the health of the captain and officers. They're prone to stress, you know," McCoy winked and added, "Some more than others."

"Yes, I read the study last year. Most men and women stay as working captains for less than ten years. Active duty is hard on a person. It's the paperwork that kills them, though," Kirk joked.
"Ain't it the truth," McCoy sympathized, his own paperwork caught up. Almost. "So. About your problem."

"And my problem is…?"

"Dammit, Jim, don't make me pull it out of you. You know what I mean. Spock."

"Spock?" Kirk pretended a mild confusion. McCoy's look told him to knock it off. Kirk took another sip of his wine, glad to see that his hand was rock steady.

"Spock." McCoy said it with an emphatic nod that threatened to spill his drink. "And stop that innocent little boy act. It doesn't work with me."

"What about Spock?"

"Pretty busy lately, isn't he? He's been busy for weeks. Ever since he got back from that little trip, in fact."

Kirk nodded. "He's working on an improved version of the food processors." Kirk had been by to see the progress just yesterday. He'd been invited to taste the results of the latest experiment. The food had been amazing, the taste and texture far beyond the current standard. He'd been effusive in his praise, but he had not stayed long. They had been there.

"Usually he works alone on his projects," McCoy noted. "Not recently, though. What do you suppose has gotten into our cool, unemotional first officer?" McCoy said it so casually that at first Kirk did not catch the possible double meaning in the words. He pretended he did not, and forced himself to sit quietly in his chair.

McCoy went on, "Ensign Li brought me some biscuits the other day. My Aunt Polly could'da made them, they were so good. You could practically taste the butter." McCoy pretended to smack his lips and paused to take a sip of wine. "The food on the Enterprise is going to be the best in the fleet. We're going to have to beat the volunteers back into their shuttles with a stick once word of this gets out."

Kirk nodded and took a drink of his wine. Suddenly he stopped and looked at the bottle with speculation.

McCoy caught the glance and interpreted it. "Do you suppose Spock and the boys could copy this?"

Spock and the boys. Kirk forced himself to smile. "You could ask them."

"Think I will. Unless you'd like to?" McCoy asked. "You and Spock haven't been spending much time together, have you? Haven't seen you at your weekly chess match in quite awhile."

"We've both been busy with other things."

"Uh-huh." It was a thoughtful sound, with a trace of question there, and a great deal of doubt. It begged Kirk to go further, to explain. Kirk stubbornly kept his mouth shut.

McCoy blinked, stared at Kirk, and seemed to make a decision. He leaned forward, and said, in his best gossipy voice, "Just what do you suppose is going on there?"