0447 Hours
By Coral

Disclaimer: Paramount, Viacom, Desilu, The Great Bird Of The Galaxy, The Obsidian Order, The Tal Shiar, whoever.. (just name the zarfing character next time!)

0447 hours, and the majority of the alpha shift on the USS Enterprise were sleeping. Only a few were not, and Number One was among them. Due to the genetic engineering that she had come to accept as part of who she was, she needed less sleep than most of her "fellow" terrans. She used these hours for research, preparation, and general ship's business. She valued the peace and quiet, the time to herself. It was a habit she had managed to get into, and was comfy with. Work six hours, sleep two... then back on duty again. The Captain and the doctor often chided her about this busy schedule, but as Doctor Boyce had never found any indication that it was detrimental to her performance or the running of the ship, there was very little they could do about it, and so she continued with her established schedule.

But not tonight, it would seem. The door chime sounded, echoing through Number One's still quarters and drawing her attention from the computer screen she'd been focusing on. Deactivating the files she'd been reading - research on an old Vulcan country - she called for the computer to activate the lights. As the lights sprung up, illuminating the bare room, she moved towards the door, wondering who would interrupt her at this time of night. People looking for company rarely came to her for it; she wasn't exactly viewed as a comforting sort of a person. In addition, she had very few on the crew she could count as friends and even among those, none of them would be likely to be paying her a visit at this hour.

Straightening her uniform - she had discarded the jacket earlier in deference to the hour, but was still in the green under jacket and her uniform trousers - with a tug, she pressed the control to open the door. A male crewmember stumbled through, in a manner that suggested he was intoxicated beyond normal levels. He lurched forward, and she instinctively reached out to steady him, catching a glimpse of his face as she did so - which would possibly have caused a less collected crewmember than the ship's First Officer to gasp and drop the man she was supporting.

Neither of these were just any crewmember, though. Number One possessed a calm that Spock often described as Vulcanoid - and the man supported in her strong arms was none other than the ship's Captain, Christopher Pike.

Thinking quickly, she guided him into her quarters. Despite part of her that chafed at letting him into her personal space - especially in this condition - she realised that it would better for him to make a fool of himself in here, rather than out there, where any passing crewman might see the state the Captain was in. She would just have to cope as best as possible, and call sickbay if it got beyond her control. She helped him over to the couch, the only item of furniture in the living area apart from the desk, desk chair and table.

"Evening, Captain," she said wryly as he lolled over the couch, seemingly unable to hold himself upright properly. She crossed over to the small sink and filled a mug full of water, trying to remember how to deal with an intoxicated humanoid.

"Ev'ning," he replied somewhat absently, and looking back she noted that he was looking past her as if trying to focus on something behind her. "Nice quarters." His speech was indistinct and the words ran together. Slurred was the term, she remembered from her years at the Academy, where some of the students had found this state bewilderingly enjoyable. She sighed inwardly as she walked back over and knelt by his side, wondering what had prompted him to end up here, of all places. Sickbay was the logical choice.

"Here, drink this," she said in the tone she usually reserved for raw cadets who seemed to have barely managed to get their commissions. His hand-eye co-ordination was obviously impaired - it actually took him several attempts just to grasp the mug, then even longer to raise it to his mouth. For a moment, she was worried he would refuse the water, but he eventually gulped it down - though rather messily, she had to admit. "What have you been doing, Captain?" she asked, as if the answer wasn't obvious to anyone with half a brain.

"Just so-sosh-spending some time with the off duty crew," Chris said. The mug clattered, empty, to the floor, and as Number One bent to retrieve it, Chris' hand snaked out and grabbed her arm. She tried to brush him off, but he was deceptively strong, and she realised she couldn't without hurting him.

"Captain, let go," she said, keeping her voice even.

"So formal... I thought we were friends..."

"We are," she said automatically, wondering where he was going with this. She tried to stand, but his hand around her wrist held her down. Resigned, she settled herself more comfortably on the floor. "Why are you here? You should have gone to sickbay... What's wrong?"

A blank stare was directed at her, as if he was trying to work out who she was, but he said nothing.

"Chris? Come on, you can tell me."

"Don't you ever feel... lonely?" he asked softly. "Stuck on this ship... having to maintain a distance from the crew...?"

"Command is lonely," Number One said frankly. "We learnt that when we started at the Academy. We knew that when we accepted these posts."

"But don't you ever wish it wasn't?" he pressed. He reached a hand out as if to caress her hair, but she jerked her head back out of his reach. "Don't you ever want someone to share these quarters with?"

"I never really thought about it," she said, surprised by the ease with which the lie came.

"I do... often..." He placed his other hand on her shoulder, drawing her closer to the couch, and just about managing to focus on her face now. "I think about giving up, going home... the endless struggle, the responsibility, the loss of life, the loneliness of it all..."

"Chris, I think you should go down to sickbay..."

He tightened his grip on her arm. "No. No, I'm not sick. I just need someone to talk to. Someone who understands. You understand, don't you?" The look on his face was pleading now, and Number One had to remind herself that this was her Captain - her rather intoxicated, not in his right mind Captain - and that she was supposed to be trying to think of a way to resolve this situation.

"I'm calling a medical officer up here, Chris," she insisted, standing up.

"No, don't!" He stood too, releasing his hold on her arm as he did so. She started to move out of the way, but he gripped her shoulders and held her still. "Don't, please... just..." He trailed off, and Number One sighed in frustration.

"Chris, if you have something to ask, some reason for being here, just say it, for heaven's sake!"

Chris didn't answer verbally. He lent forward and kissed her, entwining one hand in her hair and holding her close. Without meaning to, she found herself responding to him, kissing back hungrily. He seemed to take this for permission to continue, and pulled her down onto the couch. He ran his hands over her breasts, and even through the top she still wore, she felt them harden at his touch. He smiled as he realised the effect he was having already, and continued his teasing ministrations. One hand found its way up under her shirt, caressing her bare stomach before moving on to reach for the fastenings of her bra.

"Shit, no... we can't do this, Chris," she moaned, wishing she sounded a little surer of her convictions, and that she weren't feeling quite so... well.. aroused.

"Why not?" he asked playfully, covering her mouth with another kiss so she couldn't answer him.

Why not indeed... a simple question; no clear answer. Reaching up, she pushed him off her enough to slip out from under him. "You're drunk, Chris. You're not thinking clearly." And I don't think I am either, she added mentally. "You'll regret this in the morning."

"Why would I regret this?" he asked.

"You know what I mean," she flustered. There wasn't much that could ruffle her; but Chris had just succeeded.

"I love you," he said. "I thought you loved me too." The look on his face reminded Number One of a hurt puppy dog that didn't understand what was happening to it, and she felt a momentary stab of guilt. One night... couldn't hurt... could it? She desperately wanted to believe it, but her mind, all her instincts, screamed otherwise.

"I want to be able to respect you tomorrow morning, Chris," she said, trying to maintain eye contact. "And I want you to be able to respect me, and respect yourself."

He slumped into a sitting position on the couch, head in hands, absolutely silent. His shoulders began to shake and, for a moment, she feared that he was having some kind of bad, strange reaction to the alcohol in his body. Moving as softly and quietly as possible, she collected her tricorder from the desk and set it to silent scan. Trying not to make any sudden or noisy movements, she switched on the bioscanner and ran it over him. Elevated levels of alcohol, as she'd expected, but nothing that indicated a severe reaction. Shutting off the tricorder with a sigh, she put it down on the far end of the couch, and knelt down before her captain.

"Chris?" she prompted, shaking his shoulder gently when he didn't respond. "Come on, Chris. We're going to sickbay." Please don't make me call Boyce up here, she prayed silently. She wasn't sure she could put up with his well-intentioned teasing about what the two of them were doing in his quarters, with Chris in such a state. The fact that he'd be pretty close to the truth would only make it worse. "Please don't make this difficult..." she pleaded.

"I won't," he mumbled, standing. Number One noticed with a start of surprise that he had been crying; his eyes still glistened a little with unshed tears.

"Chris, I'm sorry, I'm so damned sorry-"

He cut her off with a look. "Forget it. I think it's best we both forget this, okay?" Without looking at her again, he walked towards the door, taking great care with each footstep in a manner that would have been comical if she hadn't been too upset to notice it. He managed to make it to the door and out of it without stumbling once.

"Chris-!" she called, but the doors sliding shut cut her off. "Shit," she muttered. "Shit, shit, shit." Then, pulling her jacket back on - were the environmental controls failing? She was shivering suddenly - she went back to her research.

=/\=End=/\=