Warning: total silliness ahead!

This multi-chapter story was written on a suggestion from my friend and beta reader Gabi2305, whom I thank for entrusting me with her plot bunny. I hope I took good enough care of it…

Grateful thanks also to my other beta reader, RoaringMice.

§ 1 §

"Wunderbar," a deep voice said.

Crewman Mike Rostov followed the line of sight of his companion's green eyes and found the swaying bottom half of a tall alien female.

"Uh, there's no accounting for taste, I guess," he commented, a bit shocked. As far as he was concerned he couldn't be caught even near a lady with spikes protruding from odd places, but he supposed an Armoury man might see a certain appeal in that defensive body armour.

A hearty laugh interrupted his musings.

"I was referring to the Karfa," Ensign Bernhard Müller said, his gaze dancing as he raised one of the oversized glasses that had just been set on their table. "Though it can't compare with Weissbier." A warm smile curved his lips as he added to himself, "Natürlich".

Rostov smiled back. "Natürlich," he echoed, earning himself a surprised look and a nod of appreciation for his linguistic efforts. "The Karfa! Well, that's a relief. I was afraid you'd ask me to follow some alien females into a cellar."

"A cellar? Why would I do that?" Müller asked in puzzlement, caught in mid action as he was bringing his glass to his lips.

"For no reason, you're right, forget it, sorry, gesundheit, whatever..." Rostov sputtered, causing the frown on the other man's face to deepen. He did his best to ignore it.

Damn, but he had almost shot his mouth off. He eyed his Karfa.Maybe it would be safer if he stopped drinking... He'd better not forget that he was the only soul on board who happened to know, having accidentally overheard a conversation, why the Disaster Twins had come back from Risa clad only in their skivvies, that time a few months back. The Commander and Lieutenant had been discussing it rather hotly in the launch-bay; but when they had realised that they weren't alone their differences of opinion had miraculously converged into a univocal order never to spill the beans or else. Rostov wasn't prepared to test the substance of that vague yet unambiguous threat.

Müller raised his glass in a toast. "To shore leave?" he proposed jovially.

Rostov hesitated a fleeting moment, but he could feel himself giving in to the inevitable. Ah, after all he had Russian genes, and the stuff probably contained less alcohol than his grandma's cough syrup. Reaching for his third glass of it, he smiled warmly to his friend. "To shore leave," he repeated, clinking.

In a round pit in the middle of the round locale, a group of appropriately-shaped performers were providing a soft but rhythmical background with strange-looking percussion instruments. Rostov watched Müller tap his foot in time with the music. He seemed such a different person from the quiet Second of Lieutenant Malcolm Reed he was used to; so much more genial. A bit of time off, a bit of alcohol and a bit of music had done quite the trick on him. Rostov was glad that the other person on board, aside from the command staff, who had scored most points for working overtime in the past year, had been Müller. Captain Archer had decided to reward them with a couple of days of shore leave, and the armoury man had been fun company. When on board, they each had their own duties to attend and in different departments, so they had never really got to know each other. Now that they had become better acquainted, he hoped to find the time to get together regularly.

The sounds that were floating out of the music pit were pleasant, and the Karfa had made Rostov quite relaxed. He felt a general mellowness that made him inclined to blabber. "So, d'you think that Diehard and Whiz Kid will have survived without us?" he blurted out, his eyebrows doing a quick dance.

Müller sputtered, almost choking on his drink. "Diehard?" he roared. "Is that what you engineers call Lieutenant Reed?"

Rostov broke into a grin only Phlox on a stimulant could have outdone.

"Uhm, actually no; just something I made up on the spur of the moment."

"Diehard!" Müller's big frame shook under the force of a hearty laugh. "I think the Lieutenant would actually like that."

Rostov's gaze went wide. "You're not gonna tell him, are you?"

Ignoring his words, Müller continued, "Our Chiefs were probably just fine without us. Diehard probably complained with Whiz Kid about the amount of energy allocated to the Armoury, which probably resulted in the usual lengthy quarrel; but as you know that happens just about every second day." He shook his dark head. "I wouldn't worry about them; they can take care of themselves."

Rostov grinned. "Yeah, you're right," he agreed. "What we ought to be worried about, rather, is what new upgrades to weapons and engines the two may have planned. He leaned forward conspiratorially. "I mean, we've been away for two whole days. They'll likely have half the ship redesigned by the time we get back."

"Ah, well," Müller said, replacing his empty glass on the table, "at least we'll have something interesting to do when we get back."

"Speaking of which…" Rostov checked his watch and let out a sigh. "I think we'd better leave. This planet has been fun, but I don't want to miss our ride back. The pod will be here in about twenty minutes."

"Right." Müller clapped both his hands energetically on his knees and got up. "Back to work, then. Too much rest is no good."

Rolling his eyes, Rostov followed suit. "Two days off the ship are hardly too much rest," he commented. "But I admit, after a while it gets boring."

Boring – Rostov mused half an hour later – was a beautiful adjective. Too bad he didn't know if he would live long enough to ever get to use it again. Biting his lip, he grabbed his seat more firmly.

"Ensign, with all due respect, I doubt Starfleet piloting manuals instruct you to shout 'yahoo' on take-off," he croaked out. "Or to pull the joystick with such, such – erm – enthusiasm." In his stomach the Karfa, unaware that it was no dairy product, was trying to curd.

"Would you mind practising your acrobatic flying another time?" Müller – bless the man – asked more explicitly, and quite a bit more firmly.

"Oh, man, you can't NOT like it! Where's your sense of fun?"

Mayweather actually swivelled all the way around to face them, lifting his hands off the controls, a wild grin lighting up his face. Before either of his passengers could say anything, he went on blithely, "Sit back and enjoy the ride. Let me show you what Chef's eggs feel like, when he scrambles them in the morning." With that he turned back to his console, missing the 'don't-you-dare' look Rostov shot him.

"Ah, no, wait a moment," Rostov began; but a happy string of hoots drowned the words.

"Easy, easy, EASY!"

His uncle Piotr had always told him that he could have made a career in singing. But not even that crescendo helped. The pod relentlessly spiralled up in an eddying spin, sending its two passengers groping for something to hold on to.

Müller's deeper and more authoritative voice boomed, "Ensign, put the brake on, NOW!"

Hands permanently embedded in the upholstery of his seat, Rostov gave him a grateful look. At least the Armoury man had the same rank as Mayweather, and could raise his voice with him.

"Aw, you guys are real spoilsports," Mayweather complained. "Just one last barrel roll, alright?"

"Ensign!"

Under Mayweather's expert touch, the pod was already spinning crazily again. Rostov saw Müller turn a shade greener. As they soared into another curl, he spotted Enterprise making a flash across the windshield. It wasn't long before the beep of the comm. was heard.

With a deep sigh of satisfaction – or perhaps resignation – Mayweather finally levelled the shuttle, and opened the channel.

"Yup."

Rostov narrowed his eyes. Yup? Maybe the Karfa was more alcoholic than they had thought, and he was having a drunken nightmare.

"For Surak's sake, would you quit twisting the pod like a screw, Ensign?"

Müller blinked, and Rostov grimaced. The Subcommander? he mouthed to the Armoury man. Müller shrugged, returning a confused look.

"Yes, Ma'am," Mayweather snapped back in military fashion but with a grin in his voice. "We're ready for the womb," he added.

"Right."

Rostov didn't know if he was more dumbfounded at Mayweather's lack of form or T'Pol's dry reply: he thought he had heard a rolling of the eyes in it.

"I'm deploying the docking arm. Try not to deracinate it, Ensign. I doubt the Commander would appreciate that, right now. He's still pursuing that childish project of his, which is absorbing all of his time and neurons."

And that was when Rostov knew for sure that not all was well on board the US starship Enterprise.

TBC