Series: TOS Pairing: None Rating: PG Summary: Kirk and Spock meet a new crew member under unusual circumstances.

Thanks to Scarlet and Nicki for beta-ing. Thanks to Marilyn and Billy Wilder for the inspiration.

Unseasonably Hot

by Jane(skazki)

It was Christmas Eve, if that mattered when you were aboard a starbase in orbit above Cartes 5. Christmas Eve, and until a moment ago, it had looked as if the first year of the five year mission was about to end on a warm, fuzzy note.

"We have to get you out of here," the local Starfleet rep, Commodore Gropius, said, in no-nonsense tones. She'd hardly bothered to look at the body of the Orion assassin which was leaking blood onto her cream wool carpet.

"It was self defence," Kirk objected. "No one can..."

"Around here," she interrupted crisply, "self defence is no defence, or not much. Either you leave, or you expose Starfleet to the embarrassment of a public trial. Believe me, Starfleet does not want to go to court in this jurisdiction. Starfleet might just be prepared to let the two of you hang rather than own up to some of the things it's being doing around here lately."

"Leaving may be problematic," Spock said. The Vulcan's hands were orange-stained. He was wiping them calmly on a napkin from the buffet as he spoke. "The death is probably already public knowledge. I suspect that steps will already have been taken to prevent our departure."

"Hm." The commodore seemed stumped for a moment. "Good point, Mister Spock. The Cartesians are demons for regulations, but I think I can see a way round this. There's a crew transport leaving in just under half an hour. Two of its passengers are in hospital on the base. Got themselves in a fight - no surprises there. But I'll be very surprised if anyone has bothered to tell immigration control ahead of time, seeing as the whole of my staff is out partying. All you have to do is adopt the names and service numbers of our fearless warriors, and you'll be out under the wire."

***

"You'd think they could stretch the rules a little." Kirk was throwing together as much of his luggage as he could cram into a standard issue service kit bag. He hesitated between his favourite blue bathrobe and his dress uniform. The uniform lost.

"The personnel on the transport are not officers," Spock said. He was engaged in the same task, but it looked as if his bags had been barely a quarter full anyway. "And their instruments probably take up a considerable part of the vessel's cargo space."

"Instruments?" Kirk gave up on the task and looked over his shoulder at his first officer.

"They are members of a musical ensemble of some kind."

"Oh. Euphoniums and cornets," Kirk said happily. "I was in my block band at the Academy. Clarinet. B flat."

"Excellent," the commodore said from the doorway. "Then you can fit right in. How about you, Mister Spock? Your records don't mention any musical skills..."

"I studied the saxophone, flute and pianoforte, in addition to the..."

"That's perfect. It's a problem because the transport is a chartered civilian vessel. You have to pass for members of the band until you arrive at Delta Seven. You *should* be able to trust the Starfleet contingent, but frankly, you know what these artistic types are like. Can't hold their drink or keep their knees together. So you keep up the act. That's an order, Kirk. My career is on the line here."

"Surely the members of the band will recognise..."

"We lucked out. The two in the hospital were new recruits, just joining from Earth. If they hadn't been kicking their heels here waiting for the rest of the orchestra to catch up with them, they'd not have had the chance to drink the Starlight Bar out of tequila and start arm wrestling with a couple of MPs."

"I thought you said they were musicians?" Kirk objected.

"Sure they are," she confirmed. "Oh, and there's something else you should probably know. I ordered up new uniforms for you." She unrolled the velour bundles she'd been carrying. Kirk bit his lip and looked at Spock. "Gold just isn't your colour."

"Then with your permission, sir, I will wear the red." Each officer took a regulation Starfleet minidress from the commander's hands.

"After you, Captain..." Spock gestured deferentially toward the bathroom door. Kirk signalled, 'You. Now,' with his eyes, and turned back to the base commander. "Can't you alter the records, make it look like there was a mistake in someone's personnel files. For at least one of us?" She smiled. "I'm not sure I would even if I could."

***

"These fucking boots!"

"Lieutenant Uhura has never appeared to have a problem with Starfleet uniform footwear." Spock teetered determinedly alongside his captain, kit bag over one shoulder and flute case under the other arm. Kirk glanced at him as they hurried down a long corridor to the docking ring. He didn't make a bad woman, surprisingly. Legs up to his armpits, the red dress setting off the blue-black glints in his hair. His lip gloss matched the dress exactly, and made his mouth seem softer and fuller. Not bad at all. A maintenance worker turned to pick up a tool from his case and his face lit up as he let his eyes travel up the four approaching newly shaven legs. Kirk wondered irritably if the man was going to ask Spock to lose his homely friend and join him for a drink.

"You new around here, ladies?"

"We're leaving," Kirk snapped in an uneven alto. "If we don't miss the transport," he muttered to Spock. Just then, his music stand escaped his grip. He took a deep breath before kneeling to pick it up.

"Is your back troubling you, Captain?" Spock inquired.

"No, Spock. I just don't want the whole base staring at my crotch. And it's not 'captain'. It's Josephine."

"Josephine. I am sorry."

"Not as sorry as I am, Daphne."

"I do not think we will be late. There seem to be a large number of ladies with instruments at the embarkation desk." Kirk stopped and looked up ahead. "Ladies? My God, you're right. They're *all* female, every last one of them." On the fringes of the crowd there were a tall blonde with big hair and the determined chin of a violinist, a petite oriental windplayer with a muscular embouchure, two bow-legged cellists and at least one shuddering tympanist with raven black hair in severe pigtails.

"Here goes," Kirk said. He plastered on a radiant smile and cranked his pitch up. "Hello, everyone. Darlings. I'm Josephine, and this is Daphne. I'm so glad we got out of the hospital in time. It would have been terrible if we'd missed the transport. Perfectly terrible." Spock managed to utter only a strangled tenor, "Delighted to meet you, ladies," before the crowd opened up and took them to its heart. It was all Kirk could do to hang on to his new mock pigskin music case and nod politely as everyone told him their names at the same time. Then, suddenly, he found himself right by the desk, where a frazzled official was interrogating one of the party.

"I can't find your name here."

"I told you. My name is Sladost, Yeoman Sladost, RSM, DipMus. I am a last minute substitute. I am indispensible to the orchestra, and there will be political repercussions if you do not allow me to board this wessel. Check with Captain Marcus of the Neva if you doubt this."

"The Neva has just left," the official objected.

"See what your inefficiency and constant delays have done!" the musician spluttered in what Kirk tentatively identified as a Russian accent.

"Cossacks!" She glared at the functionary, then caught sight of Kirk watching her and winked broadly at him.

"A substitute? But..." The official stopped and performed a head count of the bandmembers. "Seven individuals have already boarded, and there are ten remaining here. According to my list..."

"You have the wrong list." The Russian tossed her short brown hair and swung an unfamiliarly shaped instrument case off her back. "Do you vish me to prove that I am musician?"

"What kind of musician?" The Cartesian ran his longest finger across the 'wrong' list.

"I play the balalaika. Also the gamelan, but only in emergencies. Do you prefer Tchaikovsky or Shostakovitch?"

"Ursula!" an urgent voice hissed from the back of the crowd, but the yeoman was in her element. She drew herself to her full height, squared her shoulders, adjusted her cleavage and fixed the official with a doe-eyed gaze. He broke first and picked up a stylus. "Name."

"Sladost."

"Is that your family cognomen? If so, do you have any other appellation?"

"Pardon?"

"Her other name is Ursula," the helpful voice from the crowd repeated.

"It means 'Bear'. And 'Sladost' means 'honey', near enough, so..."

"Yeoman Sladost. Balalaikist... Balalaikalist. Musician." The official scribbled furiously and waved the Russian through the security scanners. She held her instrument closely, as if afraid it might be harmed.

"Why don't they use DNA ID?" Kirk muttered to Spock.

"Their own biotechnology is not yet sufficiently advanced to handle alien genetic data, and they are unwilling to 'buy it in' for political reasons."

"I see," Kirk said. "Just as well for us."

"Indeed," Spock agreed, "and, I suspect, for Yeoman Sladost." He patted at his unfamiliar dark curls, checking that they securely covered his ears.

"What do you mean?" Kirk hissed.

"Her fingers were not callused, as they would be if she played the balalaika regularly. I suspect she is a 'ringer'." Before Kirk could respond, he was beckoned forward by the Cartesian. He dropped two clarinet cases, the music stand and the pigskin pouch on the counter and fished in a side pocket of his kitbag for his paperwork. Dipping his eyelashes at the official, he simpered charmingly, "Yeoman Josephine..."

"Yes. Next!" The stylus struck through the appropriate entry on the list, and Kirk was aboard. Spock joined him a minute or two later in the access tube.

"How long is this trip?" Kirk demanded. He surreptitiously hitched up one leg of his hose and dropped a clarinet. Spock squatted decorously and picked it up.

"Only twenty four hours, Josephine. However..."

"Do we get single cabins or are we in steerage?"

"I believe the accommodation is of the variety known as 'couchettes."

"Voulez vous couchette avec moi, eh?" Kirk said, with a synthetic leer.

"Captain?"

"Never mind."

"Welcome aboard, ladies! You must be Josephine..." The matronly woman smiled at Spock "...and Daphne. I'm Chief McGrath, but most of my girls think of me as 'mother'."

"Actually... Um... Actually, I'm Josephine and he's Daphne." Kirk retrieved the clarinet just as Spock's elbow corrected him for misusing a pronoun.

"Oof. We're pleased to meet you, Chief. Uh. Ma'am."

"Are you sure you're ready to be out of hospital, Josephine? You sound a little breathless."

"Oh, no. I'm fine. I'm just..." Kirk clutched a limp hand to his chest and was surprised to encounter bare skin above the scoop neck of his dress.

"... the dry air of the station, you know."

"Tell me about it, dear. If we used genuine reeds, they'd be split to splinters." She led them a short way along a cramped corridor and into what could only be called a dormitory. Triple bunks lined the small compartment.

"Now, you and Daphne here are... yes. Fifteen and eighteen. Last in, I'm afraid, so you're on the bottom and nearest to the engines, but never mind. I'm sure you'll sleep like babies. Lights out in thirty minutes. We have a plenty of work to do tomorrow. Oh, and... about the captain..." Kirk turned back from stowing his bag in the locker at the back of his bunk.

"Yes... I mean... what about him?"

"Take mother's advice. Don't. I know you two don't have much off-Earth experience, but don't let his braid dazzle you. Ships' captains are all the same: think they're god's gift to woman, drink too much and fart in bed." She thought about it for a moment. "I make an exception for Matt Decker."

***

McGrath's voice had been effortlessly audible over the background babble of ten or twelve women unpacking, undressing and unwinding. Once she had finished and departed through the far door, presumably into officer territory, Kirk, stalwartly ignoring her comments, began to tune into the static:

"...Poker. I think we should play poker. Or let him..."

"...the mixers: tonic, orange, Centauri fizz..."

"...pack of cards, and Phoebs has another..."

"...babydoll pyjamas..."

"...ordered a pizza and that wonderful Altair seafood salad..."

"I think, Daphne, that we've landed ourselves in the middle of a sorority midnight party..." The blonde violinist looked up from unloading a couple of quarts of assorted alcohols out of her kit bag."Of course! It's Christmas Eve. We're mostly Earth girls, and we want to have some fun. Are you two going to object to that?" Kirk uttered a girlish giggle. "Who, me and Daphne? Oh no. We're the ultimate party animals, aren't we, Daphs?" Had there been a Vulcan death look, Kirk might have found out just how effective it was at that moment. Since there wasn't, Spock merely straightened his back, and then rethought and relaxed his shoulders to a more fetchingly feminine outline. "I am very tired. I think I shall retire early, but you won't disturb me."

"Well, that's okay," the windplayer said cheerfully. "More action for the rest of us."

"Jim," Spock hissed in the captain's ear when he didn't follow his first officer's excellent example, "a tactical withdrawal might be..."

"Are you kidding, Daphne? The first chance I've ever had to attend a pyjama party in a girl's dorm and you want me to wimp out?" Spock raised an eyebrow.

"I'm missing Christmas Eve dinner -- dinner *plus*, if you know what I mean -- with Areel Shaw. And I hope she got my message about that. Let me have some fun here." Spock frowned in a way that meant he was withdrawing from the fight in the face of incomprehensible human behaviour. Kirk swung into action. "We didn't know you were planning a party. We haven't brought anything..."

"Don't worry about that. There's plenty of pizza keeping warm under my duvet. Just slip into something comfortable, find yourselves a couple of toothmugs and come join the fun..."

"Yeah, you can share my bunk. You two come sit with me!" The food was being laid out on a couple of card tables half way along the compartment. The three layers of bunks either side were filling up with musicians in various states of undress. Kirk and Spock were being offered space by a cherubic young lady on level two to starboard.

"Thanks, just give us a moment! Do you have a robe or something with you, Sp... Daphne? Something decent?"

"I have my meditation robe, Josephine."

"Good. I'm going to change in the bathroom." Kirk grabbed his kit bag from his bunk and headed back the way they'd come, having noted a bathroom just before they left the corridor. As he reached it the door opened and Ursula came out, wearing boyish plaid pyjamas. She was carrying a toothbrush and two bottles of vodka, but what Kirk mostly noticed were big brown each, a generously wide mouth that grinned asymmetrically, and a peach complexion.

"You can never trust the drinking water on these commercial shuttles," she confided to Kirk. And then she leaned up against the door frame, crossed her legs and looked the captain up and down in a most disconcertingly appraising manner. "This trip just gets better and better. Tell me -- don't disappoint me now! -- you are in on the bet?" She didn't wait for an answer, just smiled roguishly and vanished into the dorm. Teeth cleaned, face unwashed (Kirk figured he couldn't get by without the camouflage of cosmetics), and wearing the baby blue terry robe that he was now very glad he hadn't abandoned to the Cartesians, Kirk returned to Spock. The Vulcan had somehow managed to change in the crowded dorm.

"Watch it," Kirk warned him. "That balalaika player is a lesbian and there's some kind of..."

"Captain, I have been gathering intelligence in your absence. 'That balalaika player' as you describe him, is Ensign Pavel Chekov, who has missed his flight to Delta Seven due to double booking by someone in personnel. He is, like us, 'hitching a lift' in the guise of a female musician, in order to make his connection at Delta Seven for a posting which is very important to him." Spock paused expectantly.

"The only ship he can connect with at Delta Seven..." Kirk stopped.

"Is the Enterprise. Yes. Ensign Chekov is your new ensign, and alpha shift navigator. And the bona fide band members are planning to make the most of his presence among them." Before Kirk could reply, they were surrounded by purring musicians. "I *love* your robe, Daphne!"

"It's so elegant..."

"...It's so unusual. What a beautiful shade of red! Can I try it on?" Even as Spock opened his mouth to object, feminine fingers were plucking at his belt.

"Lights out!" McGrath's voice bellowed. "And tonight, I mean it!"

"Yes, Ma'am!" There were ten seconds of tense silence, then the lights dipped to emergency blue. The door slid closed and someone popped a cork.

"She'll give us forty minutes tops, then she'll come back in to make sure we're all asleep." Kirk couldn't see who was telling him this, but she took his arm and led him over to his reserved seat on the bunks. He let himself be arranged against a row of bolsters.

"Champage, Scotch, vodka," someone listed out for him. "Any or all of them, with or without orange?"

"Scotch. Please." By the time his drink was handed along to him, his eyes were adjusting to the twilight. Directly opposite, 'Yeoman Sladost' had a woman lolling against each shoulder. He clicked his glass against theirs before tossing back the contents.

"Are you in on the game?" a sweet alto voice asked Kirk. Momentarily distracted from the warm, feminine thigh pressed against his, and blonde head of yet another musician between his knees (she was seated on the deck), Kirk looked up. "What game is it?"

"Five card stud. Five credits is the stake..."

"Sure. Daphne, throw over my purse."

"Josephine, I do not advise..."

"Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud!" Kirk had taken a couple of large mouthfuls of the liquor, which really didn't deserve better treatment, and thought his light-headedness was probably due to the closeness of so many loosely clothed females rather than the alcohol.

"...and in thirty minutes, whoever has the most credits shares Ursula's bunk. Okay?" Kirk had just dropped a five credit piece into the palm of someone's hand. She moved on before he could reclaim it. Spock came over to drop another five credits into the kitty. He squeezed in next to Kirk. "I'm sure that if we play judiciously," he sighed into Kirk's ear, "we can ensure that neither of us wins the jackpot."

***

Twenty five minutes later, Kirk had a stack of nearly thirty credits in front of him, Spock and an English horn player were tied second with thirteen each, and three more women were still hanging in.

"You two are going to have to introduce me to whoever taught you to play this game," the horn player grumbled as she cut the deck and handed it back to Spock, who dealt with cool professionalism. Kirk looked at his third full house of the evening. "What are we going to do?" he whimpered to his first officer out of the corner of his mouth. Chekov shook his head as the vodka bottle came round for refills. "I don't want to disappoint anyone," he explained to his right hand neighbour.

"You're so cute," she told him. She'd gradually slid down to the point where she was lying with her head in his lap. Kirk nudged Spock in the ribs. "Scoot over there and promise her a commission and a berth on the Enterprise if she'll turn round and render young Lothario unfit for duty before McGrath shows up."

"That would be improper and unnecessary," Spock reassured him.

"You'd better have a plan B," Kirk said through clenched teeth, dropping his cards on the table. Spock laid down queens and tens which narrowly -- but sufficiently -- whipped the captain's jacks and nines. Kirk looked despairingly at the horn player as she laid down two sixes.

"Charlie!" her colleagues moaned.

"It's only credits," she said coolly. "And there was everything to play for." She leaned across various supine women and kissed Chekov slowly and thoroughly on the mouth. "It's a great shame you're not in for all seventeen nights of the tour. Daphne, he's all yours." Spock was collecting the monetary portion of his winnings. He was on his way back to his bunk to stow the credits, when the door opened unexpectedly. An elderly merchant navy officer, with rather too much braid for anyone lower than an admiral, rolled in looking as though he was fighting a heavy swell. He bumped into Spock and took two steps back.

"Ah, you're a fine young filly!"

"You are mistaken," Spock told him.

"No. I'm not. You are a fine young filly, for sure, and I am a man who knows." Kirk came to Spock's defence. "Captain..."

"Captain Eames, for sure." The man blinked. He reached out and took one of Kirk's hands in his. "And you, you gorgeous creature, what's your name?"

"That is none of your business." A second hand grasped the lapels of Kirk's robe and used it to drag its wearer close enough to kiss.

"Take your filthy hands off her!" Kirk, a little drunk himself, turned and blinked at his pyjama-clad defender. Sladost -- no, Chekov -- shook her -- his -- fringe out of his eyes and inserted a shoulder between the transport's captain and his quarry. The two men were evenly matched in height, but Chekov was clearly ahead on sobriety. Eames took a moment to appreciate this fact, and then he burped offensively and retreated, muttering about 'ingratitude' and 'unnatural' women.

"I can look after myself," Kirk told the ensign.

"Of course," Chekov replied graciously, "but since I am here, you don't need to." Kirk was drunkenly touched to be on the receiving end of his own style of gallantry. He forgot himself sufficiently to let Chekov kiss him. The bona fide band members had hardly noticed this contretemps. They were pulling the curtains across their berths, exchanging 'goodnight!'s and 'sleep well!'s. Suddenly, Kirk, Spock and the faux Sladost were alone. Spock stepped forward as if he was about to kiss the ensign too. Chekov half closed his eyes and leaned into the embrace, so that when Spock neck pinched him, it was easy to let his momentum take him gently into Spock's bunk.

"What are you going to do now?" Kirk asked.

"A brief mind meld, and 'Yeoman Sladost' will wake in the morning feeling... thoroughly relaxed." Kirk frowned. "We could just tell him..."

"He is drunk now. He will probably be more inebriated tomorrow and even less discrete tomorrow. And the commodore's orders were very clear."

"D'you need my help?"

"In what way?"

"Authenticating detail." The captain cleared his throat. "How often have you shared a single couchette with two women, Mister Spock?" He felt, rather than saw, the eyebrow go up.

"Fascinating."

***

By 2200 the following day, Kirk was back in his own uniform, on his own ship, stowing the contents of the kit bag in his cabin. His door chimed just as he was about to hang the blue robe in his closet.

"Come." It took him a moment to see past the gold tunic and recognise his visitor.

"Sla...ah... Chekov."

"Captain." The ensign looked from the blue robe to the captain's rising blush. He shook his head. "Yeo... Ensign Chekov, reporting for duty, Captain."

The End